MELOMANIACS 


BOOKS  BY  JAMES  HUNEKER 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


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MELOMANIACS 


BY 

JAMES    HUNEKER 


Come,  let  us  inarch  against  the  powers  of  heaven, 
And  set  black  streamers  in  the  firmament, 
To  signify  the  slaughter  of  the  Gods. 

Marlowe 


NEW   YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1917 


Copyright,  1909,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


All  rig-hit  reserved 


PUBLISHED,  FEBRUARY,  1902 


PHILIP  HALE 


2082918 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THK  LORD'S  PRAYER  IN  B i 

A  SON  OF  LISZT " 

A  CHOPIN  OF  THE  GUTTER 19 

THE  PIPER  OF  DREAMS 31 

AN  EMOTIONAL  ACROBAT       63 

ISOLDE'S  MOTHER 73 

THE  RIM  OF  FINER  ISSUES 99 

AN  IBSEN  GIRI "8 

TANNHAUSER'S  CHOICE 141 

THE  RED-HEADED  PIANO  PLAYER 158 

BRYNHILD'S  IMMOLATION 172 

THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ELUSIVE 183 

AN  INVOLUNTARY  INSURGENT 196 

HUNDING'S  WIFE 206 

THE  CORRIDOR  OF  TIME 224 

AVATAR 240 

THE  WEGSTAFFES  GIVE  A  MUSICALE 255 

THE  IRON  VIRGIN 268 

DUSK  OF  THE  GODS 280 

VJJ 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 
SIEGFRIED'S  DEATH 294 

INTERMEZZO 307 

A  SPINNER  OF  SILENCE 315 

THE  DISENCHANTED  SYMPHONY 324 

Music  THE  CONQUEROR 347 


MELOMANIACS 


THE   LORD'S   PRAYER   IN    B 

AT  the  close  of  the  first  day  they  brought 
Baruch  into  the  great  Hall  of  the  Oblates,  some- 
time called  the  Hall  of  the  Unexpected.  The 
young  man  walked  with  eyes  downcast.  Aloft 
in  the  vast  spaces  the  swinging  domes  of  light 
made  more  reddish  his  curly  beard,  deepened 
the  hollows  on  either  side  of  his  sweetly  pointed 
nose,  and  accented  the  determined  corners  of 
his  firmly  modelled  lips.  He  was  dressed  in 
a  simple  tunic  and  wore  no  Talith;  and  as  he 
slowly  moved  up  the  wide  aisle  the  Grand  In- 
quisitor, visibly  annoyed  by  the  resemblance, 
said  to  his  famulus,  "  The  heretic  dares  to 
imitate  the  Master."  He  crossed  himself  and 
shuddered. 

Mendoza  abated  not  his  reserve  as  he  drew 
near  the  long  table  before  the  Throne.  Like  a 
quarry  that  is  at  last  hemmed  in,  the  Jew  was 
quickly  surrounded  by  a  half  thousand  black- 
robed  monks.  The  silence  —  sick,  profound,  and 
awful  —  was  punctuated  by  the  low,  sullen  tap- 
ping of  a  drum.  Its  droning  sound  reminded  the 
prisoner  of  life-blood  dripping  from  some  single 
pore;  the  tone  was  B,  and  its  insistent,  muffled, 
i  i 


MELOMANIACS 

funereal  blow  at  rhythmic  intervals  would  in  time 
have  worn  away  rock.  Mendoza  felt  a  prevision 
of  his  fate ;  being  a  musician  he  knew  of  music's 
woes  and  warnings.  And  he  lifted  eyes  for  the 
first  time  since  his  arrest  in  a  gloomy,  star-lit 
street  of  Lisbon. 

He  saw  bleached,  shaven  faces  in  a  half  circle ; 
they  seemed  like  skulls  fastened  on  black  dum- 
mies —  so  immobile  their  expression,  so  deadly 
staring  their  eyes.  The  brilliant  and  festal 
appearance  of  the  scene  oppressed  him  and 
his  eyeballs  ached.  Symphonies  of  light  were 
massed  over  the  great  high  walls;  glistening 
and  pendulous,  they  illuminated  remote  ceilings. 
There  was  color  and  taunting  gaiety  in  the 
decoration ;  the  lofty  panels  contained  pictures 
from  the  classic  poets  which  seemed  profane  in 
so  sacred  an  edifice,  and  just  over  the  Throne 
gleamed  the  golden  tubes  of  a  mighty  organ. 
Then  Baruch  Mendoza's  eyes,  half  blinded  by 
the  strange  glory  of  the  place  to  which  he  had 
been  haled,  encountered  the  joyful  and  ferocious 
gaze  of  the  Grand  Inquisitor.  Again  echoed 
dolefully  the  tap  of  the  drum  in  the  key  of  B, 
and  the  prisoner  shuddered. 

A  voice  was  heard  :  "  Baruch  Mendoza,  thou 
art  before  the  Throne,  and  one  of  the  humblest 
of  God's  creatures  asks  thee  to  renounce  thy 
vile  heresies."  Baruch  made  no  answer.  The 
voice  again  modulated  high,  its  menace  sweetly 
hidden. 

a 


THE   LORD'S   PRAYER   IN   B 

"  Baruch  Mendoza,  dost  thou  renounce?" 
The  drum  counted  two  taps.  Baruch  did  not 
reply.  For  the  third  time  the  voice  issued  from 
the  lips  of  the  Grand  Inquisitor,  as  he  drew  the 
hood  over  his  face. 

"  Baruch  Mendoza,  dog  of  a  Jew,  dog  of  a 
heretic,  believer  in  no  creed,  wilt  thou  recant 
the  evil  words  of  thy  unspeakable  book,  pros- 
trate thyself  before  the  altar  of  the  Only  God, 
and  ask  His  forgiveness?  Answer,  Baruch 
Mendoza !  " 

The  man  thus  interrogated  wondered  why 
the  Hall  of  the  Oblates  was  adorned  with  laugh- 
ing Bacchantes,  but  he  responded  not.  The 
drum  tapped  thrice,  and  there  was  a  burst  of 
choral  music  from  the  death-like  monks;  they 
chaunted  the  Dies  Ira,  and  the  sonorous  choir 
was  antiphonally  answered  with  anxious  recti- 
tude from  the  gallery,  while  the  organ  blazed 
out  its  frescoed  tones.  And  Baruch  knew  that 
his  death-hymn  was  being  sung. 

To  him,  a  despiser  of  the  vesture  of  things,  to 
him  the  man  with  the  spiritual  inner  eye,  whose 
philosophy  was  hated  and  feared  because  of  its 
subtle  denial  of  the  God  in  high  heaven,  to 
Baruch  Mendoza  the  universe  had  seemed 
empty  with  an  emptiness  from  which  glared 
no  divine  Judge  —  his  own  people's  Jahveh  — 
no  benignant  sufferer  appeared  on  the  cross. 
He  saw  no  future  life  except  in  the  commingling 
of  his  substance  with  the  elements;  and  for 

3 


MELOMANIACS 

this  contumacious  belief,  and  his  timidly  bold 
expression  of  it,  he  had  been  waylaid  and  ap- 
prehended in  the  gloomy  star-lit  street  of 
Lisbon. 

The  single  tap  of  the  drum  warned  him; 
the  singing  had  ceased.  And  this  bitter  idealist, 
this  preacher  of  the  hollowness  of  the  real, 
wondered  where  were  the  sable  trappings  of 
woe,  the  hideous  envisagement  of  them  that 
are  condemned  with  mortuary  symbols  in  garbs 
of  painted  flame  to  the  stake,  faggot,  axe,  and 
headsman.  None  of  these  were  visible,  and  the 
gentle  spirit  of  the  prisoner  became  ruffled, 
alarmed.  He  expected  violence  but  instead 
they  offered  churchly  music.  Restless,  his 
nerves  fretted,  he  asked  himself  the  reason. 
He  did  not  fear  death,  for  he  despised  life ; 
he  had  no  earthly  ties ;  his  life's  philosophy 
had  been  fittingly  enunciated ;  and  he  knew 
that  even  though  a  terrible  death  overtook  him 
his  seed  had  fallen  on  ripe  soil.  As  he  was  a 
descendant  from  some  older  system  that  denied 
the  will  to  live,  so  would  he  in  turn  beget 
disciples  who  would  be  beaten,  burned  and 
reviled  by  the  great  foe  to  liberty  —  the  foe 
that  strangled  it  before  Egypt's  theocracy,  aye  ! 
before  the  day  of  sun-worshippers  invoking  their 
round,  burning  god,  riding  naked  in  the  blue. 
Baruch  pondered  these  things,  and  had  almost 
lost  his  grasp  on  time  and  space  when  some- 
thing jarred  his  consciousness. 
4 


THE   LORD'S   PRAYER   IN   B 

It  was  the  tap  of  the  drum,  sombre,  dull,  hol- 
low and  threatening;  he  shivered  as  he  heard 
its  percussive  note,  and  with  a  start  remembered 
that  the  Dies  Irce  had  been  chaunted  in  the  same 
key.  Once  more  he  wondered. 

A  light  touch  on  the  shoulder  brought  him 
realization.  He  stood  almost  alone ;  the  monks 
were  gliding  down  the  great  Hall  of  the  Oblates 
and  disappearing  through  a  low  arched  door, 
the  sole  opening  in  the  huge  apartment.  One 
remained,  a  black  friar,  absolutely  hooded. 

Baruch  followed  him.  The  pair  noiselessly 
traversed  the  wonderful  hall  with  its  canopies 
of  light,  its  airy  arches,  massive  groinings  and 
bewildering  blur  of  color  and  fragrance ;  the 
air  was  thick  and  grateful  with  incense.  Exactly 
in  the  middle  of  the  hall  there  rested  on  the 
floor  a  black  shadow,  a  curiously  shaped 
shadow.  It  was  a  life-sized  crucifix  which 
Baruch  had  not  seen  before.  To  it  he  was 
led  by  the  black  friar,  who  motioned  him  to  the 
floor;  then  this  unbelieving  Jew  and  atheist 
laid  himself  humbly  down,  and  with  outstretched 
arms  awaited  his  end. 

In  few  rapid  movements  the  prisoner  was 
chained  to  the  cross ;  and  with  a  penetratingly 
sweet  smile  the  friar  gave  him  a  silent  blessing, 
while  Baruch's  eyes  followed  the  dazzling  tracery 
on  the  ceiling,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
golden,  gleaming  organ  tubes  above  the  Throne 
of  Judgment. 

5 


MELOMANIACS 

The  stillness  was  so  profound  that  he  heard 
the  soft  sighs  of  the  candles,  the  forest  of  un- 
numbered candles;  the  room  was  windless. 
Again  the  singular  fancy  overtook  him  that 
the  key  of  B  ruled  the  song  of  the  lights,  and 
he  stirred  painfully  because  certain  sounds 
irritated  him,  recalling  as  a  child  his  vague  rage 
at  the  Kol  Nidrei,  which  was  sung  in  the  key 
of  B  minor  at  the  synagogue. 

He  closed  his  eyes  a  moment  and  opened 
them  with  fright,  for  the  drum  sounded  near  his 
head,  though  he  could  not  turn  to  see  it.  Sud- 
denly he  was  encircled  by  ten  monks  and 
chaunting  heard.  Mendoza  noticed  the  admi- 
rable monotone,  the  absolute  pitch,  and  then, 
with  a  leap  of  his  heart,  the  key  color  B  again ; 
and  the  mode  was  major. 

The  hooded  monks  sang  in  Latin  the  Lord's 
Prayer.  "  Our  Father,"  they  solemnly  intoned 
—  "  Our  Father  who  art  in  Heaven ;  hallowed 
be  thy  name.  Thy  Kingdom  come.  Thy  will 
be  done  on  earth  as  it  is  in  Heaven.  Give  us 
this  day  our  daily  bread.  And  forgive  us  our 
trespasses  as  we  forgive  those  who  trespass 
against  us.  And  lead  us  not  into  temptation, 
but  deliver  us  from  evil.  Amen." 

Baruch  tried  to  sleep.  The  rich  voices  lulled 
him  into  temporary  rest;  he  seemed  to  have 
slept  hours.  But  he  knew  this  was  impossible, 
for  the  monks  were  singing  the  Lord's  Prayer 
when  he  awoke.  He  grew  exasperated ;  why 
6 


THE   LORD'S    PRAYER   IN   B 

need  they  pray  over  him  ?  Why  did  they  not 
take  him  to  his  damp  cell  to  rot  or  to  be  eaten 
by  vermin?  This  blaze  of  light  was  unendur- 
able; it  penetrated  his  closed  eyelids,  painted 
burning  visions  on  his  brain,  and  the  music  — 
the  accursed  music  —  continued.  Again  the 
Lord's  Prayer  was  solemnly  intoned,  and  notic- 
ing the  freshness  of  the  voices  he  opened  his 
eyes,  counted  ten  cowled  monks  around  him; 
and  the  key  they  sang  was  B,  the  mode  major. 

Another  set,  Baruch  thought,  as  he  remarked 
the  stature  of  the  singers,  and  sought  oblivion. 
All  that  night  and  all  next  day  he  chased  sleep, 
and  the  morning  of  the  third  day  found  him 
with  half  mad  gaze,  sleepless  and  frantic.  When 
from  deadly  exhaustion  he  would  half  faint  into 
stupor  the  hollow,  sinister  sound  of  the  drum 
stunned  his  ears,  while  rich,  churchly  voices  of 
men  would  intone  "  Pater  noster,  qui  es  in  cce- 
lis!  "  and  always  in  the  agonizing  key  of  B. 

This  tone  became  a  monstrous  serpent  that 
plunged  its  fangs  into  Baruch's  brain  and  hissed 
one  implacable  tone,  the  tone  B.  The  drum 
roared  the  same  tone ;  the  voices  twined  about 
the  crucified  Jew  and  beat  back  sleep,  beat  back 
death  itself. 

The  evening  of  the  fourth  day  Baruch  Mendoza 
was  more  pallid  than  his  robe ;  his  eyes  looked 
like  twin  stars,  they  so  glittered,  and  the  fire  in 
them  was  hardly  of  this  earth.  His  cheek-bones 
started  through  the  skin ;  beard  and  hair  hung 


MELOMANIACS 

in  damp  masses  about  the  ghastly  face  and  head  ; 
his  lips  were  parted  in  a  contemptuous  grin,  and 
there  was  a  strained,  listening  look  on  the  coun- 
tenance :  he  was  listening  for  the  key  that  was 
slaying  him,  and  he  saw  it  now,  saw  it  in  the 
flesh,  a  creeping,  crawling,  shapeless  thing  that 
slowly  strangled  his  life.  All  his  soul  had  flown 
to  his  ears,  all  his  senses  were  lodged  in  the  one 
sense  of  hearing,  and  as  he  heard  again  and 
again  the  Lord's  Prayer  in  the  key  of  B  the 
words  that  compose  it  separated  themselves 
from  the  tone  and  assumed  an  individual  life. 
The  awful  power  of  the  spoken  word  assailed 
him,  and  "  Our  Father  who  art  in  heaven  "  be- 
came for  Baruch  a  divine  gigantic  cannibal,  de- 
vouring the  planets,  the  stars,  the  firmament,  the 
cosmos,  as  he  created  them.  The  heavens  were 
copper,  and  there  gleamed  and  glared  the  glance 
of  an  eyeball  burning  like  a  sun,  and  so  threat- 
ening that  the  spirit  of  the  atheist  was  consumed 
as  a  scroll  in  the  flame.  He  cried  aloud,  "  If 
there  is  a  God,  let  Him  come  from  on  high  and 
save  me !  "  The  drum  sounded  more  fiercely,  a 
monk  moistened  with  water  the  tortured  man's 
lips,  and  Baruch  groaned  when  the  cowled  choir 
chaunted,  "  Pater  noster,  qui  es  in  coelis  !  " 

"  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread."  He 
asked  himself  if  he  had  ever  known  hunger  and 
thirst;  then  other  letters  of  fire  came  into  his 
brain,  but  through  the  porches  of  his  ears. 
' '  And  forgive  us  our  trespasses  as  we  forgive 
8 


THE  LORD'S   PRAYER  IN   B 

those  who  trespass  against  us."  Could  he,  he 
whispered  to  his  soul  —  could  he  forgive  these 
devils  that  sang  like  angels  ?  He  almost  shivered 
in  his  attempt  to  smile ;  and  loathing  life  heard 
with  sardonic  amusement:  "Lead  us  not  into 
temptation,  but  deliver  us  from  evil !  " 

"Amen,"  groaned  Baruch  Mendoza.  Again 
the  drum  boomed  dolorously,  and  monkish 
voices  intoned :  "  Pater  noster,  qui  es  in  coelis  !  " 

There  was  no  dawn,  no  eve  in  this  brassy  hell 
of  music.  The  dripping  monotone  of  voices,  the 
dreary  pelting  of  the  drum  never  ceased ;  and 
the  soul  of  the  unbeliever  was  worn  slowly  away. 
The  evening  of  the  seventh  day  the  Grand  In- 
quisitor, standing  at  his  side,  noticed  with  horror 
the  resemblance  to  the  Master,  and  piously 
crossed  himself. 

Seeing  the  end  was  nigh,  for  there  was  thin 
froth  on  the  shrivelled  gums  of  the  man,  the  mild- 
voiced  Inquisitor  made  a  sign  to  the  black  friar, 
and  in  a  moment  the  music  that  had  never 
ceased  for  six  days  was  no  longer  heard,  though 
the  air  continued  to  hum  with  the  vibrations  of 
the  diabolical  tone.  The  black  friar  knelt  be- 
side the  dying  one,  and  drawing  an  ivory  cruci- 
fix from  his  habit  held  it  to  Mendoza's  face. 
Baruch,  aroused  by  the  cessation  of  the  tortur- 
ing tonality,  opened  his  eyes,  which  were  as 
black  as  blood,  saw  the  symbol  of  Christianity, 
and  with  a  final  effort  forced  from  his  cracked 
lips: 

9 


MELOMANIACS 

"  Thou  traitor !  "  As  he  attempted  to  blas- 
pheme the  sacred  image  he  died,  despairingly 
invoking  Adonai. 

Then  rolled  forth  in  rich,  triumphant  tones 
the  music  of "  Our  Father  who  art  in  heaven," 
while  the  drum  sonorously  sounded  in  the  key 
of  B,  and  the  mode  was  major. 


A   SON   OF   LISZT 

It  originated  in  the  wicked  vanity  of  Sir  William 
Davenant  himself,  who,  disdaining  his  honest  but  mean 
descent  from  the  vintner,  had  the  shameless  impiety  to 
deny  his  father  and  reproach  the  memory  of  his  mother 
by  claiming  consanguinity  with  Shakespeare. 

—  REED'S  SHAKESPEARE. 

LITTLE  HOLLAND  was  very  dry. 

Little  Holland  is  a  shapeless  stretch  of 
meadowland  pierced  by  irregular  canals  through 
which  sluggishly  flows  the  water  at  high  tide. 
Odd  shaped  houses  are  scattered  about,  one  so 
near  the  river  that  its  garden  overflows  in  the 
full  of  the  moon.  Dotted  around  stand  conical 
heaps  of  hay  gleaned  from  this  union  of  land 
and  water.  It  is  called  Little  Holland,  for  small 
schooners  sail  by  under  the  very  nose  of  your 
house,  and  the  hired  girl  often  forgets  to  serve 
the  salad  while  flirting  with  the  skipper  of  some 
sloop.  But  this  August  night  Little  Holland 
was  very  dry. 

As  we  stood  facing  the  river  I  curiously  ex- 
amined my  host.  His  face  was  deeply  lined  by 
life  which  had  carved  a  quarter  hundred  little 
wrinkles  about  his  eyes  and  the  corners  of  his 
mouth.  His  eyes  were  not  true.  They  shifted 
ii 


MELOMANIACS 

too  much.  His  thick,  brown  hair  was  thrown  off 
his  forehead  in  a  most  exuberantly  artistic 
fashion.  His  nose  jutted  well  into  the  outer 
world,  and  I  had  to  confess  that  his  profile  was 
of  a  certainty  striking.  But  his  full  face  was 
disappointing.  It  was  too  narrow ;  its  expres- 
sion was  that  of  a  meagre  soul,  and  his  eyes 
were  very  close  together.  Yet  I  liked  Piloti ; 
he  played  the  piano  well,  sang  with  no  little 
feeling,  painted  neat  water  sketches  and  was  a 
capital  host. 

A  sliced  cantaloupe  moon,  full  of  yellow 
radiance,  arose  as  we  listened  to  the  melancholy 
fall  of  the  water  on  the  muddy  flats,  and  I  said 
to  Piloti,  "  Come,  let  us  go  within ;  there  you 
will  play  for  me  some  tiny  questioning  Chopin 
prelude,  and  forget  this  dolorous  night."  .  .  . 
He  had  been  staring  hard  at  the  moon  when  I 
aroused  him.  "  As  you  will ;  let  us  go  in-doors 
by  all  means,  for  this  moon  gives  me  the  spleen." 
Then  we  moved  slowly  toward  the  house. 

Piloti  was  a  bachelor ;  an  old  woman  kept 
house  and  he  always  addressed  her  in  the  Hun- 
garian tongue.  His  wants  were  simple,  but  his 
pride  was  Lucifer's.  By  no  means  a  virtuoso,  he 
had  the  grand  air,  the  grand  style,  and  when  he 
sat  down  to  play  one  involuntarily  stopped 
breathing.  He  had  a  habit  of  smiting  the  key- 
board, and  massive  chords,  clangorous  har- 
monies inevitably  preluded  his  performances. 
I  knew  some  conservatory  girls  who  easily  could 

12 


A  SON   OF  LISZT 

outstrip  Piloti  technically,  but  there  was  some- 
thing which  differentiated  his  playing  from  that 
of  other  pianists.  Liszt  he  did  very  well. 

When  we  came  into  the  shabby  drawing-room 
I  noticed  a  picture  of  the  Abb6  Liszt  over  the 
grand  piano,  and  as  Piloti  took  a  seat  he  threw 
back  his  head ;  and  my  eyes  which  had  rested  a 
moment  on  the  portrait  involuntarily  returned 
to  it,  so  before  I  was  aware  of  it  I  cried  out, 
"  I  say,  Piloti,  do  you  know  that  you  look  like 
Liszt?"  He  blushed  deeply,  and  gave  me  a 
most  curious  glance. 

"  I  have  heard  it  said  often,"  he  replied,  and 
he  crashed  into  the  master's  B  minor  Sonata, 
"  The  Invitation  to  Hissing  and  Stamping,"  as 
Gumprecht  has  christened  it. 

Piloti  played  the  interesting  work  most  vigor- 
ously. He  hissed,  he  stamped  and  shook  back 
his  locks  in  true  Lisztian  style.  He  rolled 
off  the  chorale  with  redundant  meaning,  and 
with  huge,  flamboyant  strokes  went  through  the 
brilliant  octave  finale  in  B  major.  As  he  closed, 
and  I  sat  still,  a  sigh  near  at  hand  caused  me  to 
turn,  and  then  I  saw  the  old  housekeeper,  her 
arms  folded,  standing  in  a  doorway.  The  moon- 
light biliously  smudged  her  face,  and  I  noticed 
her  staring  eyes.  Piloti's  attention  was  attracted 
by  my  silence,  and  when  he  saw  the  woman  he 
uttered  a  harsh,  crackling  word.  She  instantly 
retired.  Turning  to  me,  with  a  nervous  laugh, 
he  explained : 

'3 


MELOMANIACS 

"  The  old  fool  always  is  affected  by  moon- 
light and  music." 

We  strolled  out-of-doors,  cigarettes  in  hand, 
and  the  rhythmic  swish-swash  of  the  river  told 
that  the  tide  was  rising.  The  dried-up  gullies 
and  canals  became  silver-streaked  with  the  in- 
coming spray,  and  it  needed  only  a  windmill  to 
make  the  scene  as  Dutch  as  a  Van  Der  Neer. 
Piloti  was  moody.  Something  worried  him,  but 
as  I  was  not  in  a  very  receptive  condition,  I 
forbore  questioning  him.  We  walked  over  the 
closely  cut  grass  until  the  water  was  reached. 
He  stopped,  tossed  his  cigarette  away: 

"  I  am  the  unhappiest  man  alive  !  "  At  once 
I  became  sympathetic. 

He  looked  at  me  fiercely:  "Do  you  know 
who  I  am?  Do  you  know  the  stock  I  spring 
from?  Will  you  believe  me  if  I  tell  you?  Can 
I  even  trust  you  ?  "  I  soothed  the  excited  mu- 
sician and  begged  him  to  confide  in  me.  I  was 
his  nearest  friend  and  he  must  be  aware  of  my 
feelings.  He  became  quieter  at  once;  but 
never  shall  I  forget  the  look  on  his  face  as  he 
reverently  took  off  his  hat. 

"  I  am  the  son  of  Franz  Liszt,  and  I  thank 
God  for  it!" 

"  Amen  !  "  I  fervently  responded. 

Then  he  told  me  his  story.  His  mother  was  a 
Hungarian  lady,  nobly  born.  She  had  been  an 
excellent  pianist  and  studied  with  Liszt  at  Wei- 
mar and  Buda-Pesth.  When  Piloti  became  old 


A  SON  OF  LISZT 

enough  he  was  taught  the  piano,  for  which  he 
had  aptitude.  With  his  mother  he  lived  the 
years  of  his  youth  and  early  manhood  in  Lon- 
don. She  always  wore  black,  and  after  Liszt's 
death  Piloti  himself  went  into  mourning.  His 
mother  sickened  and  died,  leaving  him  nothing 
but  sad  memories.  It  sounded  very  wretched, 
and  I  hastened  to  console  him  as  best  I  could. 
I  reminded  him  of  the  nobility  of  his  birth,  and 
that  it  was  greater  to  be  the  son  of  a  genius  than 
of  a  duke.  "  Look  at  Sir  William  Davenant," 
I  said ;  "  '  O  rare  Sir  William  Davenant,'  as  his 
contemporaries  called  him.  What  an  honor  to 
have  been  Shakespeare's  natural  son !  "  But 
Piloti  shook  his  head. 

"  I  care  little  for  the  legitimacy  of  my  birth ; 
what  worries  me,  oppresses  me,  makes  me  the 
most  miserable  man  alive,  is  that  I  am  not  a  sec- 
ond Liszt.  Why  can  I  not  play  like  my  father?  " 

I  endeavored  to  explain  that  genius  is  seldom 
transmitted,  and  did  not  forget  to  compliment 
him  on  his  musical  abilities.  "  You  know  that 
you  play  Liszt  well.  That  very  sonata  in  B 
minor,  it  pleased  me  much."  "  But  do  I  play 
it  like  a  Friedheim?  "  he  persisted.  And  I  held 
my  peace.  .  .  . 

Piloti  was  downcast  and  I  proposed  bed. 
He  assented.  It  was  late;  the  foolish-looking 
young  topaz  moon  had  retired ;  the  sky  was 
cloudy,  and  the  water  was  rushing  over  Little 
Holland.  We  did  not  get  indoors  without  wet- 


MELOMANIACS 

ting  our  feet.  After  drinking  a  parting  glass  I 
shook  his  hand  heartily,  bade  him  cheer  up,  and 
said  that  study  would  soon  put  him  in  the  par- 
terre of  pianists.  He  looked  gloomy,  and  nodded 
good-night  I  went  to  my  room.  As  the  water 
was  likely  to  invade  the  cellar  and  even  the 
ground  floor,  the  bedrooms  were  all  on  the  second 
floor.  I  soon  got  to  my  bed,  for  I  was  tired, 
and  the  sadness  of  this  strange  household,  the 
moaning  of  the  river,  the  queer  isolated  feeling, 
as  if  I  were  alone  far  out  at  sea,  all  this  de- 
pressed me,  and  I  actually  pulled  the  covers 
over  my  head  like  a  frightened  child  during  a 
thunderstorm. 

I  must  have  been  sleeping  some  time  when 
voices  penetrated  the  dream-recesses  of  my 
brain.  As  I  gradually  emerged  from  darkened 
slumber  I  became  conscious  of  Piloti's  voice. 
It  was  pitched  a  trifle  above  a  whisper,  but  I 
heard  every  word.  He  was  talking  savagely  to 
some  one,  and  the  theme  was  the  old  one. 

"  It  has  gone  far  enough.  I  'm  sick  of  it,  I 
tell  you.  I  will  kill  myself  in  another  week. 
Don't,"  he  said  in  louder  tones  and  with  an 
imprecation  —  "  don't  tell  me  not  to.  You  've 
been  doing  that  for  years." 

A  long  silence  ensued;  a  woman's  voice 
answered : 

"  My  son,  my  son,  you  break  my  heart  with 
your  sorrow !  Study  if  you  would  play  like 
your  father,  study  and  be  brave,  be  courageous ! 
16 


A   SON   OF   LISZT 

All  will   come  out  right.     Idle  fretting  will  do 
no  good." 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  housekeeper,  and 
she  spoke  in  English.  Piloti's  mother !  What 
family  secret  was  I  upon  the  point  of  discover- 
ing? I  shivered  as  I  lay  in  my  bed,  but  could 
not  have  forborne  listening  though  I  should  die 
for  it.  The  voices  resumed.  They  came  from 
the  room  immediately  back  of  mine : 

"  I  tell  you,  mother,  I  know  the  worst.  I 
may  be  the  son  of  a  genius,  but  I  am  neverthe- 
less a  mediocrity.  It  is  killing  me  !  it  is  killing 
me  !  "  and  the  voice  of  this  morose  monomaniac 
broke  into  sobs. 

The  poor  mother  cried  softly.  "  If  I  only  had 
not  been  Liszt's  son,"  Piloti  muttered,  "  then  I 
would  not  be  so  wretched,  so  cursed  with  ambi- 
tions. Alas  !  why  was  I  ever  told  the  truth?  " 

"  Oh,  my  son,  my  son,  forgive  !  "  I  heard  the 
noise  of  one  dropping  on  her  knees.  "  Oh,  my 
boy,  my  pride,  my  hope,  forgive  me  —  forgive 
the  innocent  imposture  I  've  practised  on  you ! 
My  son,  I  never  saw  Liszt ;  you  are  —  " 

With  an  oath  Piloti  started  up  and  asked  in 
heavy,  thick  speech :  "  What 's  this,  what 's 
this,  woman?  Seek  not  to  deceive  me.  What 
do  you  tell  me?  Never  saw  Liszt!  Who,  then, 
was  my  father?  You  must  speak,  if  I  have  to 
drag  the  words  from  between  your  teeth." 

"  O  God !  O  God !  "  she  moaned,  "  I  dare 
not  tell  you  —  it  is  too  shameful  —  I  never  saw 


MELOMANIACS 

Liszt — I  heard  much  of  him  —  I  adored  him, 
his  music  —  I  was  vain,  foolish,  doting !  I 
thought,  perhaps,  you  might  be  a  great  pianist, 
and  if  you  were  told  that  Liszt  was  your  father 
—  your  real  father."  .  .  . 

"My  real  father  —  who  was  he?  Quick, 
woman,  speak !  " 

"  He  was  Liszt's  favorite  piano-tuner,"  she 
whispered. 

Dull  silence  reigned,  and  then  I  heard  some 
one  slowly  descending  the  stairs.  The  outer 
door  closed,  and  I  rushed  to  the  window.  In 
the  misty  dawn  I  could  see  nothing  but  water. 
The  house  was  completely  hemmed  in  by  a 
noiseless  sheet  of  sullen  dirty  water.  Not  a 
soul  was  in  sight,  and  almost  believing  that  I 
had  been  the  victim  of  a  nightmare,  I  went  back 
to  my  bed  and  fell  asleep.  I  was  awakened  by 
loud  halloas  and  rude  poundings  at  my  window. 
A  man  was  looking  in  at  me :  "  Hurry  up, 
stranger ;  you  have  n't  long  to  wait.  The  water 
is  up  to  the  top  of  the  porch.  Get  your  clothes 
on  and  come  into  my  boat !  " 

It  did  not  take  me  hours  to  obey  this  hint, 
and  I  stepped  from  the  window  to  the  deck  of 
a  schooner.  The  meadows  had  utterly  disap- 
peared. Nothing  but  water  glistened  in  the 
sunlight.  When  I  reached  the  mainland  I 
looked  back  at  the  house.  I  could  just  descry 
the  roof. 

Little  Holland  was  very  wet. 
18 


A   CHOPIN   OF   THE   GUTTER 

J'ai  vu  parfois  au  fond  d'un  theatre  banal 
Qu'enflammait  1'orchestre  sonore 
Une  fee  allumer  dans  un  ciel  infernal 
Une  miraculeuse  aurore  ; 

J'ai  vu  parfois  au  fond  d'un  theatre  banal 
Un  etre  qui  n'e*tait  que  lumiere,  or  et  gaze, 
Terrasser  I'e'norme  Satan ; 
Mais  mon  coeur  que  jamais  ne  visite  1'extase, 

Est  un  theatre  ou  1'on  attend. 

Toujours,  toujours  en  vain  1'etre  aux  ailes  gaze. 

—  BAUDELAIRE. 

THEY  watched  him  until  he  turned  the 
corner  of  the  Rue  Puteaux  and  was  lost  to  them. 

He  moved  slowly,  painfully,  one  leg  striking 
the  pavement  in  syncopation,  for  it  was  sadly 
crippled  by  disease.  He  twisted  his  thin  head 
only  once  as  he  went  along  the  Batignolles.  It 
seemed  to  them  that  his  half  face  was  sneering 
in  the  mist.  Then  the  band  passed  up  to  the 
warmer  lights  of  the  Clichy  Quarter,  where  they 
drank  and  argued  art  far  into  the  night  They 
one  and  all  hated  Wagner,  adoring  Chopin's 
morbid  music. 

Minkiewicz  walked  up  the  lower  side  of  the 
little  street  called  Puteaux  until  he  reached  a 


MELOMANIACS 

stupid,  overgrown  building.  It  was  numbered 
5,  and  was  a  shabby  sort  of  pension.  The  Pole 
painfully  hobbled  up  the  evil-smelling  stairway, 
more  crooked  than  a  youth's  counterpoint,  and 
on  the  floor  next  to  the  top  halted,  breathing 
heavily.  The  weather  was  oppressive  and  he 
had  talked  too  much  to  the  young  men  at  the 
brasserie. 

"  Ah,  good  boys  all,"  he  murmured,  trying 
the  door ;  "  good  lads,  but  no  talent,  no  origi- 
nality. Ah !  "  The  door  yielded  and  Minkiewicz 
was  at  home. 

An  upright  piano,  a  bed,  a  shaky  wash-stand 
and  bureau,  one  feeble  chair,  music  —  pounds  of 
it  —  filled  the  chamber  lighted  by  one  candle. 
The  old  man  threw  himself  on  the  bed  and 
sighed  drearily.  Then  he  went  to  the  piano, 
lifted  the  lid  and  ran  his  fingers  over  the  key- 
board. He  sighed  again.  He  sat  down  on  the 
chair  and  closed  his  eyes.  He  did  not  sleep, 
for  he  arose  in  a  few  moments,  took  off  his  coat, 
and  lighted  a  cigarette  in  the  flame  of  the 
candle.  Minkiewicz  again  placed  himself  before 
the  instrument  and  played,  but  with  silent 
fingers.  He  executed  the  most  intricate  pas- 
sages, yet  the  wind  in  the  room  was  soundless. 
He  sat  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  his  hat  on  his  head, 
playing  a  Chopin  concerto  in  dumb  profile,  and 
the  night  wore  on.  ... 

He  was  awakened  in  the  morning  by  the 
entrance  of  a  grimy  gargon  who  grinned  and 
20 


A   CHOPIN   OF   THE   GUTTER 

put  on  the  floor  an  oblong  basket.  Minkiewicz 
stirred  restlessly. 

"  The  absinthe  —  you  have  not  forgotten  it?  " 
he  questioned  in  a  weak  voice. 

"  Ah,  no,  sir ;  never,  sir,  do  I  forget  the  green 
fairy  for  the  great  musician,  sir,"  was  the  answer, 
evidently  a  set  one,  its  polite  angles  worn  away 
by  daily  usance. 

The  man  grasped  the  proffered  glass  and 
swallowed,  choking,  the  absinthe.  It  did  him 
good,  for  he  sat  up  in  bed,  his  greasy,  torn 
nightgown  huddled  about  him,  and  with  long, 
claw-like  fingers  he  uncovered  the  scanty  break- 
fast. When  he  had  finished  it  he  wiped  his 
mouth  and  hands  on  the  counterpane: 

"  Charge  it  as  usual." 

The  waiter  packed  up  the  dishes,  bade  a  bon 
jour,  and  with  a  mocking  gesture  left  the  room. 
Minkiewicz  always  had  his  breakfasts  charged. 

At  noon  he  crawled  out  of  bed  and  dressed 
at  a  grave  tempo.  He  wore  always  the  same 
shirt,  a  woollen  one,  and  his  wardrobe  knew  no 
change.  It  was  faded,  out  of  fashion  by  a  full 
half-century,  and  his  only  luxury  a  silk  comforter 
which  he  knotted  loosely  about  his  neck.  He 
had  never  worn  a  collar  since  Chopin's  death. 
It  was  two  of  the  clock  when  he  stumbled  down- 
stairs. At  the  doorway  he  met  Bernard  the 
hunchback  landlord. 

"No  money  to-day,  M.  Minkiewicz?  Well,  I 
suppose  not  —  terribly  hard  times  —  no  money. 

21 


MELOMANIACS 

Will  you  have  a  little  glass  with  me  ?  "  The 
musician  went  into  the  dusky  dining-room  and 
drank  a  pony  of  brandy  with  the  good-natured 
Alsatian ;  then  he  shambled  down  the  Rue 
Puteaux  into  the  Boulevard  des  Batignolles, 
and  slowly  aired  himself. 

"A  great  man,  M.  Minkiewicz;  a  poet,  a 
pianist,  a  friend  of  M.  Chopin — ah!  I  admire 
him  much,  much,"  explained  Bernard  to  a 
neighbor.  .  .  . 

It  was  very  wet.  But  the  slop  and  swish  of 
the  rain  did  not  prevent  the  brasserie  of  The 
Fallen  Angels  from  being  rilled  with  noisy 
drinkers.  In  one  corner  sat  Minkiewicz.  He 
was  drinking  absinthe.  About  him  clustered 
five  or  six  good-looking  young  fellows.  The 
chatter  in  the  room  was  terrific,  but  this  group 
of  disciples  heard  all  the  master  said.  He 
scarcely  spoke  above  a  whisper,  yet  his  voice 
cut  the  hot  air1  sharply. 

"  You  ask  me,  Henri,  how  well  I  knew 
Frederic.  I  could  ask  you  in  turn  how  well 
did  you  know  your  mother?  I  was  with  him 
at  Warsaw.  I,  too,  studied  under  Eisner.  I 
accompanied  him  on  his  first  journey  to  Vienna. 
I  was  at  his  first  concert.  I  trembled  and  cried 
as  he  played  our  first  —  his  first  concerto  in  F 
minor.  I  wrote  —  we  wrote  the  one  in  E  minor 
later.  I  proposed  for  the  hand  of  Constance 
Gladowska  for  Frederic,  and  he  screamed  when 
I  brought  back  the  answer.  Ah  !  but  I  did  not 
22 


A   CHOPIN    OF  THE   GUTTER 

tell  him  that  Constance,  Constantia,  had  said, 
1  Sir  Friend,  why  not  let  the  little  Chopin  woo 
for  himself?  '  and  she  threw  back  her  head  and 
smiled  into  my  eyes.  I  could  have  killed  her 
for  that  subtle  look.  Yes ;  I  know  she  married 
an  ordinary  merchant.  What  cared  I?  I  loved 
Frederic,  Frederic  only.  I  never  left  his  side. 
When  it  rained,  rained  as  it  is  raining  to-night, 
he  would  tremble,  and  often  beat  me  with  his 
spider-like  hands,  but  I  did  n't  mind  it,  for  I  was 
stronger  then. 

"  I  went  with  him  to  Paris.  It  was  I  who 
secured  for  him  from  Prince  Radziwill  the  in- 
vitation to  the  Rothschild's  ball  where  he  won 
his  first  triumph.  I  made  him  practise.  I 
bore  his  horrible  humors,  his  mad,  irritating, 
capricious  temper.  I  wrote  down  his  music  for 
him.  Wrote  it  down,  did  I  say?  Why,  I  often 
composed  it  for  him ;  yes,  I,  for  he  would  sit 
and  moon  away  at  the  piano,  insanely  wasting 
his  ideas,  while  I  would  force  him  to  repeat  a 
phrase,  repeat  it,  polish  it,  alter  it  and  so  on 
until  the  fabric  of  the  composition  was  com- 
plete. Then,  how  I  would  toil,  toil,  prune  and 
expand  his  feeble  ideas !  Mon  Dieu !  Fred- 
eric was  no  reformer  by  nature,  no  pathbreaker 
in  art ;  he  was  a  sickly  fellow,  always  coughing, 
always  scolding,  but  he  played  charmingly.  He 
had  such  fingers !  and  he  knew  all  our  national 
dances.  The  mazurek,  the  mazourk,  the  polo- 
'ftaise  and  the  krakowiak.  Ah !  but  then  he  had 
23 


MELOMANIACS 

no  blood,  no  fire,  no  muscle,  no  vitality.  He 
was  not  a  revolutionist.  He  did  not  discover 
new  forms;  all  he  cared  for  was  to  mock  the 
Jews  with  their  majufes,  and  play  sugar-water 
nocturnes. 

"  I  was  the  artistic  mate  to  this  little  Pole  who 
allowed  that  old  man-woman  to  deceive  him  — 
George  Sand,  of  course.  Ah !  the  old  rascal, 
how  she  hated  me.  She  forbade  me  to  enter 
their  hotel  in  the  Cour  d'Orleans,  but  I  did  — 
Chopin  would  have  died  without  me,  the  deli- 
cate little  vampire  !  I  was  his  nurse,  his  mother, 
his  big  brother.  I  fought  his  fight  with  the 
publishers,  with  the  creditors.  I  wrote  his  polo- 
naises, all  —  all  I  tell  you  —  except  those  sickly 
things  in  the  keys  of  C  sharp  minor,  F  minor 
and  B  flat  minor.  Pouf !  don't  tell  me  anything 
about  Chopin.  He  write  a  polonaise?  He 
write  the  scherzi,  the  ballades,  the  etudes?  — 
you  make  me  enraged.  I,  I  made  them 
all  and  he  will  get  the  credit  for  all  time, 
and  I  am  glad  of  it,  for  I  loved  him  as  a 
father." 

The  voice  of  Minkiewicz  became  strident  as 
he  repeated  his  old  story.  Some  of  the  clients 
of  The  Fallen  Angels  stopped  talking  for  a 
moment ;  it  was  only  that  crazy  Pole  again  with 
his  thrice-told  tale. 

Minkiewicz  drank  another  absinthe. 

"  And  were  you  then  a  poet  as  well  as  a  com- 
poser?" timidly  asked  young  Louis. 

24 


A  CHOPIN   OF  THE   GUTTER 

"  I  was  the  greatest  poet  Poland  ever  had. 
Ask  of  Chopin's  friends,  or  of  his  living  pupils. 
Go  ask  Georges  Mathias,  the  old  professor  of 
the  Conservatoire,  if  Minkiewicz  did  not  inspire 
Chopin.  Who  gave  him  the  theme  for  his 
Revolutionary  etude  —  the  one  in  C  minor?" 
Minkiewicz  ran  his  left  hand  with  velocity 
across  the  table.  His  disciples  followed  those 
marvellously  agile  fingers  with  the  eyes  of  the 
hypnotic.  .  .  . 

"  I  was  with  Frederic  at  Stuttgart.  I  first 
heard  the  news  of  the  capture  of  Warsaw.  Pale 
and  with  beating  heart  I  ran  to  the  hotel  and 
told  him  all.  He  had  an  attack  of  hysteria; 
then  I  rushed  to  the  piano  and  by  chance 
struck  out  a  phrase.  It  was  in  C  sharp  minor, 
and  was  almost  identical  with  the  theme  of  the 
C  minor  study.  At  once  Chopin  ceased  his 
moaning  and  weeping  and  came  over  to  the 
instrument.  '  That 's  very  pretty,'  he  said,  and 
began  making  a  running  bass  accompaniment. 
He  was  a  born  inventor  of  finger  tricks ;  he  took 
up  the  theme  and  gradually  we  fashioned  the 
study  as  it  now  stands.  But  it  was  first  written 
in  C  sharp  minor.  Frederic  suggested  that  it 
was  too  difficult  for  wealthy  amateurs  in  that 
key,  and  changed  it  to  C  minor.  More  copies 
would  be  sold,  he  said.  But  he  spoke  no  more 
of  Warsaw  after  that.  Why?  Ah!  don't  ask 
me  —  the  true  artist,  I  suppose.  Once  that  his 
grief  is  objectified,  once  that  his  sorrow  is  trans- 
25 


MELOMANIACS 

lated  into  tone,  the  first  cause  is  quite  forgotten, 

—  Art  is  so  selfish,  so  beautiful,  you  know ! 

"  I  never  left  Frederic  but  once ;  the  odious 
Sand  woman,  who  smoked  a  pipe  and  swore  like 
a  cab  driver,  smuggled  the  poor  devil  away  to 
Majorca.  He  came  back  a  sick  man ;  no  won- 
der! You  remember  the  de  Musset  episode. 
The  poet's  mother  even  implored  the  old  dragon 
to  take  Alfred  to  Italy.  He,  too,  was  coughing 

—  all  her  friends  coughed  except    Liszt,    who 
sneered  at  her  blandishments  —  and  Italy  was 
good  for  consumptives.     De  Musset  went  away 
ailing;    he    returned   a    mere    shadow.     What 
happened  ?     Ah !  I  cannpt   say.     Possibly    his 
eyes  were  opened  by  the  things  he  saw  —  you 
remember  the  young  Italian  physician  —  I  think 
his  name  was  Pagello?     It  was  the  same  with 
Chopin.      Without   me    he    could    not    thrive. 
Sand  knew  it  and  hated  me.     I  was  the  sturdy 
oak,  Frederic  the  tender  ivy.     I  poured  out  my 
heart's  blood  for  him,  poured  it  into  his  music. 
He   was  a  mere  girl,  I  tell  you  —  a  sensitive, 
slender,  shrinking,  peevish  girl,  a  born  prudish 
spinster,  and  would  shiver  if  any  one  looked  at 
him.     Liszt  always  frightened  him  and  he  hated 
Mendelssohn.     He  called  Beethoven  a  sour  old 
Dutchman,   and    swore    that  he  did  not  write 
piano  music.     For  the  man  who  first  brought 
his  name   before    the    public,   the    big-hearted 
German,    Robert    Schumann  —  here 's    to    his 
memory  —  Chopin  had  an  intense  dislike.     He 

26 


A   CHOPIN   OF  THE   GUTTER 

confessed  to  me  that  Schumann  was  no  com- 
poser, a  talented  improviser  only.  I  think  he 
was  a  bit  jealous  of  the  man's  genius.  But 
Freddie  loved  Mozart,  loved  his  music  so  madly 
that  it  was  my  turn  to  become  jealous. 

"  And  fastidious !  Bon  Dieu  !  I  tell  you  that 
he  could  not  drink,  and  once  Balzac  told  us  a 
piquant  story  and  Frederic  fainted.  I  remem- 
ber well  how  Balzac  stared  and  said  in  that 
great  voice  of  his :  '  Guard  well  thy  little  dam- 
sel, my  good  Minkiewicz,  else  he  may  yet  be 
abducted  by  a  tom-cat,'  and  then  he  laughed 
until  the  window-panes  rattled.  What  a 
brute !  .  .  . 

"  I  gave  my  brain  to  Chopin.  When  he 
returned  to  me  from  that  mad  trip  to  the 
Balearic  Islands  I  had  not  the  heart  to  scold. 
He  was  pallid  and  even  coughed  in  a  whisper. 
He  had  no  money ;  Sand  was  angry  with  him 
and  went  off  to  Nohant  alone.  I  had  no  means, 
but  I  took  twenty-four  little  piano  preludes  that 
I  had  made  while  Frederic  was  away  and  sold 
them  for  ready  money.  You  know  them,  all 
the  world  knows  them.  They  say  now  that  he 
wrote  them  whilst  at  Majorca,  and  tell  fables 
about  the  rain-drop  prelude  in  D  flat.  A  pack 
of  lies !  I  wrote  them  and  at  my  old  piano 
without  strings,  the  same  that  I  still  have  in  the 
Rue  Puteaux.  But  I  sha'n't  complain.  I  love 
him  yet.  What  was  mine  was  his  —  is  his,  even 
my  music." 

a; 


The  group  became  uneasy.  It  was  late.  The 
rain  had  stopped,  and  through  the  open  doors 
of  The  Fallen  Angels  could  be  seen  the  soft- 
starred  sky,  and  melting  in  the  distance  were 
the  lights  of  the  Gare  Saint-Lazare.  It  was 
close  by  the  Quarter  of  Europe,  and  the  women 
who  walked  the  boulevard  darted  swift  glances 
into  the  heated  rooms  of  the  brasserie. 

Minkiewicz  drank  another  absinthe  —  his 
last.  There  was  no  more  money.  The  disciples 
had  spent  their  all  for  the  master  whom  they 
loved  as  they  hated  the  name  of  Wagner.  His 
slanting  eyes  —  the  eyes  of  the  Calmuck  — 
were  bloodshot;  his  face  was  yellow-white.  His 
long,  white  hair  hung  on  his  shoulders  and  there 
were  bubbles  about  his  lips. 

"  But  I  often  despair.  I  loved  Chopin's  repu- 
tation too  much  ever  to  write  a  line  of  music 
after  his  death.  Besides  who  would  have  be- 
lieved me?  Which  one  of  you  believes  in  his 
secret  heart  of  hearts  one  word  I  have  spoken 
to-night?  It  is  difficult  to  make  the  world 
acknowledge  that  you  are  not  an  idiot;  very 
difficult  to  shake  its  belief  that  Chopin  was  not 
a  god.  Alas !  there  are  no  more  gods.  You 
say  I  am  a  poet,  yet  how  may  a  man  be  a  poet 
if  godless?  I  know  that  there  is  no  God,  yet  I 
am  unhappy  longing  after  Him.  I  awake  at 
the  dawn  and  cry  for  God  as  children  cry  for 
their  mother.  Curse  reason !  curse  the  knowl- 
edge that  has  made  a  mockery  of  my  old 
28 


A   CHOPIN   OF   THE    GUTTER 

faiths !  Frederic  died,  and  dying  saw  Christ. 
I  look  at  the  roaring  river  of  azure  overhead 
and  see  the  cruel  sky  —  nothing  more.  I  tell 
you,  my  children,  it  has  killed  the  poet  in  me, 
and  it  will  kill  the  gods  themselves  when  comes 
the  crack  of  doom. 

"  I  dream  often  of  that  time  —  that  time  John, 
the  poet  of  Patmos,  foretold  in  his  Revelations : 
The  time  when  the  Sixth  Seal  was  opened. 
Alas !  when  the  Son  of  Man  cometh  out  of  the 
clouds  and  round  about  the  throne  are  the  four- 
winged  beasts,  what  will  he  see  ? 

"  Nothing  —  nothing,  I  tell  you. 

"  Unbelief  will  have  killed  the  very  soul  of  cre- 
ation itself.  And  where  once  burned  the  eye  of 
the  Cosmos  will  be  naught  but  a  hideous 
emptiness. 

"  Helas  !  mes  enfants,  I  could  drink  one  more 
absinthe ;  my  soul  grieves  for  my  lost  faith,  my 
lost  music,  my  lost  Frederic,  my  lost  life."  .  .  . 

But  they  went  away.  It  was  past  the  hour  of 
closing  and  the  host  was  not  in  a  humor  for 
parleying. 

"  Ah !  the  old  pig,  the  old  blasphemer !  "  he 
said,  shaking  his  head  as  he  locked  the  doors. 

They  watched  him  until  he  turned  the  corner 
of  the  Rue  Puteaux  and  was  lost  to  them. 

He  moved  slowly,  painfully,  one  leg  striking 
the  pavement  in  syncopation,  for  it  was  sadly 
crippled  by  disease.  He  did  not  twist  his  thin 
head  as  he  went  along  the  Batignolles,  Then 


MELOMANIACS 

the  band  passed  once  more  up  to  the  warmer 
lights  of  the  Clichy  Quarter  and  argued  art  far 
into  the  night. 

They    one   and   all   hated   Wagner,    adoring 
Chopin's  magic  music. 


THE    PIPER    OF   DREAMS 

The  desert  of  my  soul  is  peopled  with  black  gods, 

Huge  blocks  of  wood ; 

Brave  with  gilded  horns  and  shining  gems, 

The  black  and  silent  gods 

Tower  in  the  naked  desert  of  my  soul. 

With  eyes  of  wolves  they  watch  me  in  the  night; 

With  eyes  like  moons. 

My  gods  are  they ;  in  each  the  evil  grows, 

The  grandiose  evil  darkens  over  each 

And  each  black  god,  silent 

Under  the  iron  skies,  dreams 

Of  his  omnipotence  —  the  taciturn  black  gods ! 

And  my  flesh  and  my  brain  are  underneath  their  feet ; 

I  am  the  victim,  and  I  perish 

Under  the  weight  of  these  nocturnal  gods 

And  in  the  iron  winds  of  their  unceasing  wrath. 

I 

IT  was  opera  night,  and  the  lights  burned  with 
an  official  brilliancy  that  challenged  the  radiance 
of  the  Cafe  Monferino  across  the  asphalt.  There, 
all  was  decorous  gaiety;  and  the  doubles  of 
Pilsner  never  vanished  from  the  little  round 
metal  tables  that  overflowed  into  the  juncture 
of  the  streets  Gluck  and  Halevy.  Among  the 
31 


MELOMANIACS 

brasseries  in  Paris  this  the  most  desirable  to 
lovers  of  the  Bohemian  brew.  The  cooking, 
Neapolitan  and  Viennese,  perhaps  explained  the 
presence,  one  June  evening  in  the  year  1930,  of 
tall,  blond,  blue-eyed  Illowski,  the  notorious  Rus- 
sian symphonist.  With  several  admirers  he  sat 
sipping  bocks  and  watched  the  motley  waves  of 
the  boulevard  wash  back  strange  men  and  women 
—  and  again  women. 

Lenyard  spoke  first.  Young  and  from  New 
England  he  was  studying  music  in  Paris. 

"  Master,  why  don't  you  compose  a  music 
drama?"  Illowski,  gazing  into  the  soft  blur  of 
light  and  mist  over  the  Place  de  1'Opera,  did 
not  answer.  Scheff  burst  into  laughter.  The 
one  who  had  put  the  question  became  angry. 
"  Confound  it !  What  have  I  said,  Mr.  Dutch- 
man, that  seems  so  funny  to  you  ?  "  Illowski 
put  out  a  long,  thin  hand,  —  a  veritable  flag  of 
truce :  "  Children,  cease  !  I  have  written  some- 
thing better  than  a  music  drama.  I  told  Scheff 
about  it  before  he  left  St.  Petersburg  last  spring. 
Don't  be  jealous,  Lenyard.  There  is  nothing  in 
the  work  that  warrants  publicity  —  yet.  It  is 
merely  a  venture  into  an  unfamiliar  region, 
nothing  more.  But  how  useless  to  write  for  a 
public  that  still  listens  to  Meyerbeer  in  the 
musical  catacombs  across  the  street !  " 

Lenyard's  lean,  dark  features  relaxed.  He 
gazed  smilingly  at  the  fat  and  careless  Scheff. 
Then  Illowski  arose.  It  was  late,  he  said,  and 
32 


THE   PIPER   OF   DREAMS 

his  head  ached.  He  had  been  scoring  all  day 
—  sufficient  reason  for  early  retirement.  The 
others  demurred,  though  meekly.  If  their  sun 
set  so  early,  how  could  they  be  expected  to 
pass  the  night  with  any  degree  of  pleasure? 
The  composer  saw  all  this ;  but  he  was  sensibly 
selfish,  and  buttoning  the  long  frock-coat  which 
hung  loosely  on  his  attenuated  frame  shook 
hands  with  his  disciples,  called  a  carriage  and 
drove  away.  Lenyard  and  Scheff  stared  after 
him  and  then  faced  the  situation.  There  were 
many  tell-tale  porcelain  tallies  on  the  table  to 
be  settled,  and  neither  had  much  money;  so  the 
manoeuvring  was  an  agreeable  sight  for  the 
cynical  waiter.  Finally  Lenyard,  his  national 
pride  rising  at  the  spectacle  of  the  Austrian's 
penuriousness,  paid  the  entire  bill  with  a  ten- 
franc  piece. 

Scheff  sank  back  in  his  chair  and  grinningly 
inquired,  "  Say,  my  boy,  I  wonder  if  Illowski 
has  enough  money  for  his  coachman  when  he 
reaches  the  mysterious,  old  dream-barn  he  calls 
home?"  Lenyard  slowly  emptied  his  glass: 
"  I  don't  know,  you  don't  know,  and,  strictly 
speaking,  we  don't  care.  But  I  'd  dearly  like  to 
see  the  score  of  his  new  work." 

Scheff  blinked  with  surprise.  He,  too,  was 
thinking  of  the  same  dread  matter.  "  What,  in 
God's  name,  do  you  mean?  Speak  out.  I've 
been  frightened  long  enough.  This  Illowski  is 
a  terrible  man,  Scheff.  Do  you  suspect  the 
3  33 


MELOMANIACS 

stories  are  true,  after  all — ?"  Then  both  men 
stood  up,  shook  hands  and  said :  "  Neshevna 
will  tell  us.  She  knows."  . 


II 

Pavel  Illowski  was  a  man  for  whom  the  visible 
world  had  never  existed.  Born  a  Malo-Russ, 
nursed  on  Little-Russian  legends,  a  dreamer  of 
soft  dreams  until  more  than  a  lad,  he  was  given 
a  musical  education  in  Moscow,  the  White  City 

—  itself  a   dream   of  old   Alexander  Nevsky's 
days.     Within  sight  of  the  Kremlin  the  slim  and 
delicate  youth  fed  upon  the  fatalistic  writers  of 
the  nineteenth  century.    He  knew  Schopenhauer 
before  he  learned  to  pronounce    German  cor- 
rectly;   and    the  works   of  Bakounin,    Herzen, 
Kropotkin  became  part  of  his  cerebral  tissue. 
Proudhon,  Marx,  and  Ferdinand  Lassalle  taught 
him  to  hate  wealth,  property,  power;   and  then 
he  came  across  an  old  volume  of  Nietzsche  in 
his   uncle's   library.      The   bent    of    the   boy's 
genius  was  settled.     He  would  be  a  composer 

—  had  he  not,  as  a  bare-headed  child,  run  sob- 
bing after  Tschaikowsky's  coffin  almost  to  the 
Alexander  Nevsky  Monastery  in  1893 — but  a 
composer  who  would  mould  the  destinies  of  his 
nation,  perhaps  the  destinies  of  all  the  world,  a 
second  Svarog.     He  early  saw  the  power  —  in- 
sidious, subtle,  dangerous  power  —  that  lurked 
in  great  art,  saw  that  the  art  of  the  twentieth 

34 


THE   PIPER   OF  DREAMS 

century,  his  century,  was  music.  Only  thirteen 
when  the  greatest  of  all  musical  Russians  died, 
he  read  Nietzsche  a  year  later;  and  these  men 
were  the  two  compelling  forces  of  his  life  until 
the  destructive  poetry  of  the  mad,  red-haired 
Australian  poet,  Lingwood  Evans,  appeared. 
Illowski's  philosophy  of  anarchy  was  now  com- 
plete, his  belief  in  a  social,  aesthetic,  ethical 
regeneration  of  the  world,  fixed.  Yet  he  was 
no  militant  reformer ;  he  would  bear  no  polem- 
ical banners,  wave  no  red  flags.  A  composer 
of  music,  he  endeavored  to  impart  to  his  work 
articulate,  emotion-breeding  and  formidably 
dangerous  qualities. 

Deserting  the  vague  and  fugitive  experiment- 
ings  of  Berlioz,  Wagner,  Liszt  and  Richard 
Strauss,  Illowski  modelled  himself  upon  Tschai- 
kowsky.  He  read  everything  musical  and 
poetical  in  type,  and  his  first  attempt,  when 
nearly  thirty,  was  a  symphonic  setting  of  a  poem 
by  a  half-forgotten  English  poet,  Robert  Brown- 
ing, "  Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark  Tower  Came," 
and  the  music  aroused  hostile  German  criticism. 
Here  is  a  young  Russian,  declared  the  critics, 
who  ventures  beyond  Tschalkowsky  and  Strauss 
in  his  attempts  to  make  music  say  something. 
Was  not  the  classic  Richard  Wagner  a  warning 
to  all  who  endeavored  to  wring  from  music  a 
message  it  possessed  not?  When  Wagner  saw 
that  Beethoven  —  Ah,  the  sublime  Beethoven ! 
—  could  not  do  without  the  aid  of  the  human 


MELOMANIACS 

voice  in  his  Ninth  Symphony,  he  fashioned  his 
music  drama  accordingly.  With  the  co-opera- 
tion of  pantomime,  costume,  color,  lights,  scen- 
ery, he  invented  a  new  art  —  patched  and 
tinkered  one,  said  his  enemies,  who  thought 
him  old-fashioned  —  and  so  "  Der  Ring,"  "  Tris- 
tan und  Isolde,"  "  Die  Meistersinger "  and 
"  Parsifal "  were  born.  True  classics  in  their  de- 
votion to  form  and  freedom  from  the  feverishness 
of  the  later  men  headed  by  Richard  Strauss  — 
why  should  any  one  seek  to  better  them,  to  sup- 
plant them?  Wagner  had  been  the  Mozart  of 
his  century.  Down  with  the  musical  Tartars  of 
the  East  who  spiritually  invaded  Europe  to  rob 
her  of  peace,  religion,  aye,  and  morals ! 

Much  censure  of  this  kind  was  aimed  at 
Illowski,  who  continued  calmly.  Admiring 
Richard  Strauss,  he  saw  that  the  man  did  not 
dare  enough,  that  his  effort  to  paint  in  tone  the 
poetic  heroes  of  the  past  century,  himself  in- 
cluded, was  laudable ;  but  Don  Juan,  Macbeth, 
quaint  Till  Eulenspiegel,  fantastic  Don  Quixote 
were,  after  all,  chiefly  concerned  with  a  moribund 
aestheticism.  Illowski  best  liked  the  Strauss 
setting  of  "Also  Sprach  Zarathustra"  because 
it  approached  his  own  darling  project,  though  it 
neither  touched  the  stars  nor  reached  the  earth. 
Besides,  this  music  was  too  complicated.  A 
new  art  must  be  evolved,  not  a  synthesis  of  the 
old  arts  dreamed  by  Wagner,  but  an  art  consist- 
ing of  music  alone:  an  art  for  the  twentieth 
36 


THE   PIPER   OF   DREAMS 

century,  a  democratic  art  in  which  poet  and 
tramp  alike  could  revel.  To  the  profoundest 
science  must  be  united  a  clearness  of  exposition 
that  only  Raphael  has.  Even  a  peasant  enjoys 
Velasquez.  The  Greeks  fathomed  this  mystery : 
all  Athens  worshipped  its  marbles,  and  Phidias 
was  crowned  King  of  Emotions.  Music  alone 
lagged  in  the  race,  music,  part  speech,  part 
painting,  with  a  surging  undertow  of  passion, 
music  had  been  too  long  in  the  laboratories  of 
the  wise  men.  To  free  it  from  its  Egyptian 
bondage,  to  make  it  the  tongue  of  all  life,  the 
interpreter  of  the  world's  desire  —  Illowski 
dreamed  the  dreams  of  madmen. 

Chopin,  who  divined  this  truth,  went  first  to 
the  people,  later  to  Paris,  and  thenceforward 
he  became  the  victim  of  the  artificial.  Beetho- 
ven was  born  too  soon  in  a  world  grown  gray 
under  scholars'  shackles.  The  symphony,  like 
the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  weighed  upon  his 
mighty  shoulders ;  music,  he  believed,  must  be 
formal  to  be  understood.  Illowski,  in  his  many 
wanderings,  pondered  these  things :  saw  Berlioz 
on  the  trail,  in  his  efforts  to  formulate  a  science 
of  instrumental  timbres ;  saw  Wagner  captivated 
by  the  glow  of  the  footlights ;  saw  Liszt,  auda- 
cious Liszt,  led  by  Wagner,  and  tribute  laid 
upon  his  genius  by  the  Bayreuth  man;  saw 
Tschaikowsky  struggling  away  from  the  tempta- 
tions of  the  music  drama  only  to  succumb  to 
the  symphonic  poem  —  a  new  and  vicious  ver- 
37 


MELOMANIACS 

sion  of  that  old  pitfall,  the  symphony;  saw 
Cesar  Franck,  the  Belgian  mystic,  narrowly 
graze  the  truth  in  some  of  his  chamber  music, 
and  then  fall  victim  to  the  fascinations  of  the 
word ;  as  if  the  word,  spoken  or  sung,  were 
other  than  a  clog  to  the  free  wings  of  imagina- 
tive music !  Illowski  noted  the  struggles  of 
these  dreamers,  noted  Verdi  swallowed  by  the 
maelstrom  of  the  theatre ;  noted  Richard  Strauss 
and  his  hesitation  at  the  final  leap. 

To  the  few  in  whom  he  confided,  he  admitted 
that  Strauss  had  been  his  forerunner,  having  up- 
set the  notion  that  music  must  be  beautiful  to  be 
music  and  seeing  the  real  significance  of  the 
characteristic,  the  ugly.  Had  Strauss  developed 
courage  or  gone  to  the  far  East  when  young  — 
Illowski  would  shrug  his  high  shoulders,  gnaw 
his  cigarette  and  exclaim,  "Who  knows?" 

Tolstoy  was  right  after  all,  this  sage,  who 
under  cover  of  fiction  preached  the  deadliest 
doctrines;  doctrines  that  aimed  at  nothing  less 
than  the  disequilibration  of  existing  social  con- 
ditions. Tolstoy  had  inveighed  bitterly  against 
all  forms  of  artificial  art.  If  the  Moujik  did  not 
understand  Beethoven,  then  all  the  worse  for 
Beethoven  ;  great  art  should  have  in  it  Mozart's 
sunny  simplicities,  without  Mozart's  elaborate 
technical  methods.  This  Illowski  believed.  To 
unite  the  intimate  soul-searching  qualities  of 
Chopin  and  exclude  his  alembicated  art;  to 
sweep  with  torrential  puissance  the  feelings  of 


THE   PIPER   OF   DREAMS 

the  common  people,  whether  Chinese  or  Ger- 
man, Esquimaux  or  French ;  to  tell  them  things, 
things  found  neither  in  books  nor  in  pictures  nor 
in  stone,  neither  above  the  earth  nor  in  the 
waters  below ;  to  liberate  them  from  the  tyranny 
of  laws  and  beliefs  and  commandments;  to 
preach  the  new  dispensation  of  Lingwood  Evans 
—  magnificent,  brutal,  and  blood-loving — ah! 
if  Illowski  could  but  discover  this  hidden  philos- 
ophers stone,  this  true  Arcana  of  all  wisdom,  this 
emotional  lever  of  Archimedes,  why  then  the 
whole  world  would  be  his:  his  power  would 
depose  Pope  and  Emperor.  And  again  he 
dreamed  the  dreams  of  madmen  —  his  mother 
had  been  nearly  related  to  Dostoiewsky.  .  .  . 
Of  what  avail  the  seed-bearing  Bach  and  his 
fugues  —  emotional  mathematics,  all  of  them  ! 
Of  what  avail  the  decorative  efforts  of  tonal 
fresco  painters,  breeders  of  an  hour's  pleasure, 
soon  forgotten  in  the  grave's  muddy  disdain ! 
Had  not  the  stage  lowered  music  to  the  position 
of  a  lascivious  handmaiden?  To  the  sound  of 
cymbals,  it  postured  for  the  weary  debauchee. 
No ;  music  must  go  back  to  its  origins.  The 
church  fettered  it  in  its  service,  knowing  full 
well  its  good  and  evil.  Before  Christianity  was, 
it  had  been  a  power  in  hieratic  hands.  Ancient 
Egyptian  priests  hypnotized  the  multitudes  with 
a  single  silvery  sound ;  and  in  the  deepest  In- 
dian jungles  inspired  fakirs  induced  visions  by 
the  clapping  of  shells.  Who  knows  how  the 
39 


MELOMANIACS 

Grand  Llama  of  Thibet  decrees  the  destinies  of 
millions !  Music  again,  music  in  some  other  garb 
than  we  now  sense  it.  Illowski  groaned  as  he 
attacked  this  hermetic  mystery.  He  had  all  the 
technique  of  contemporary  art  at  his  beck ;  but 
not  that  unique  tone,  the  unique  form,  by  which 
he  might  become  master  of  the  universe  and 
gain  spiritual  dominion  over  mankind.  Yet  the 
secret,  so  fearfully  guarded,  had  been  transmitted 
through  the  ages.  Certain  favored  ones  must 
have  known  it,  men  who  ruled  the  rulers  of 
earth.  Where  could  it  be  found?  "The  jealous 
gods  have  buried  somewhere  proofs  of  the  or- 
igins of  all  things,  but  upon  the  shores  of  what 
ocean  have  they  rolled  the  stone  that  hides  them, 
O  Macareus?"  Thus  echoed  he  the  fatidical 
query  of  the  French  poet.  .  .  . 

Illowski  left  Europe.  Some  said  he  had  gone 
to  Asia,  the  mother  of  all  religions,  of  all  corrup- 
tions. He  had  been  seen  in  China,  and  later 
stories  were  related  of  his  attempts  to  enter  the 
sacred  city,  Lhasa.  He  disappeared  and  many 
composers  and  critics  were  not  sorry ;  his  was 
a  too  commanding  personality:  he  menaced 
modern  art.  Thus  far  church  and  state  had 
not  considered  his  individual  existence ;  he  was 
but  one  of  the  submerged  units  of  Rurik's  vast 
Slavic  Empire  which  now  almost  traversed 
the  Eastern  hemisphere.  So  he  was  forgotten 
and  a  minor  god  arose  in  his  place  —  a  man  who 
wrote  pretty  ballets,  who  declared  that  the  end  of 
40 


THE   PIPER   OF   DREAMS 

music  was  to  enthrall  the  senses ;  and  his  ballets 
were  danced  over  Europe,  while  Illowski's  name 
faded  away.  .  .  . 

At  the  end  of  ten  years  he  returned  to  St. 
Petersburg.  Thinner,  much  older,  his  long, 
spidery  arms,  almost  colorless  blond  hair  and 
eroded  features  gave  him  the  air  of  a  cenobite 
who  had  escaped  from  some  Scandinavian  wil- 
derness into  life.  His  Oriental  reserve,  and  evi- 
dent dislike  of  all  his  former  social  habits,  set 
the  musical  world  wagging  its  head,  recalling 
the  latter  days  of  Dostolewsky.  But  Illowski 
was  not  mad:  he  simply  awaited  his  oppor- 
tunity. It  came.  The  morning  after  his  first 
concert  he  was  awakened  by  fame  knocking  at 
his  gate,  the  most  horrible  kind  of  fame.  He 
was  not  called  a  madman  by  the  critics,  for  his 
music  could  never  have  been  the  product  of  a 
crazy  brain  —  he  was  pronounced  an  arch-enemy 
to  mankind,  because  he  told  infamous  secrets  in 
his  music,  secrets  that  had  lain  buried  in  the 
shale  of  a  vanished  epoch.  And,  lest  the  world 
grow  cold,  he  drove  to  its  very  soul  the  most 
hideous  truths.  A  hypnotist,  he  conducted  his 
orchestra  through  extraordinary  and  malevolent 
forests  of  tone.  The  audience  went  into  the 
night,  some  sobbing,  some  beating  the  air  like 
possessed  ones,  others  frozen  with  terror.  At 
the  second  concert  the  throngs  were  so  dense 
that  the  authorities  interfered.  What  poison 
was  being  disseminated  in  the  air  of  a  concert 


MELOMANIACS 

hall?  What  new  device  of  the  revolutionists? 
What  deadly  secret  did  this  meagre,  dreamy, 
harmless-looking  Russian  possess?  The  censors 
were  alert.  Critics  were  instructed  by  the  heads 
of  their  journals  to  drive  forth  this  musical  an- 
archist ;  but  criticism  availed  not.  A  week,  and 
Illowski  became  the  talk  of  Russia,  a  month,  and 
Europe  rilled  with  strange  rumors  about  him. 
Here  was  a  magician  who  made  the  dead  speak, 
the  living  dumb  —  what  were  the  limits  of  his 
power?  What  his  ultimate  intention?  Such  a 
man  might  be  converted  into  a  political  force 
would  he  but  range  himself  on  the  right  side  of 
the  throne.  If  not  —  why,  then  there  was  still 
Siberia  and  its  weary  stretches  of  snow ! 

When  he  reached  Moscow  rioting  began  in  the 
streets.  Leaving,  he  went  with  his  dark-skinned 
Eastern  musicians  to  the  provinces.  And  the 
government  trembled.  Peasants  threw  aside 
spade,  forgot  vodka  and  rushed  to  his  free  con- 
certs, given  in  canvas-covered  booths ;  and  the 
impetus  communicated  to  this  huge,  weltering 
mass  of  slaving  humanity,  broke  wave-like  upon 
the  remotest  borders  of  the  empire.  The  church 
became  alarmed.  Anti-Christ  had  been  pre- 
dicted for  centuries,  and  latterly  by  the  Second 
Adventists.  Was  Illowski  the  one  at  whose 
nod  principalities  and  powers  of  earth  should 
tremble  and  fall?  Was  he  the  prince  of  dark- 
ness himself?  Was  the  liberation  of  the  seven 
seals  at  hand  —  that  awful  time  foretold  by  the 
42 


THE    PIPER   OF   DREAMS 

mystic  of  Patmos?  The  Metropolitan  of  the 
Greek  church  did  not  long  hesitate.  A  hier- 
archy that  became  endangered  because  a  fanatic 
wielded  hypnotic  powers,  must  exert  its  pre- 
rogative. The  aid  of  the  secret  police  invoked, 
Illowski  was  hurried  into  Austria ;  but  with  him 
were  his  men,  and  he  grimly  laughed  as  he 
sat  in  a  Viennese  cafe  and  counted  the  victories 
of  his  first  campaign. 

"  It  has  begun,"  he  told  his  first  violinist,  a 
stolid  fellow  with  black  blood  in  his  veins. 

It  had  begun.  After  a  concert  in  Vienna, 
Illowski  was  politely  bidden  to  leave  Austria. 
The  unsettled  political  condition,  the  disaffection 
of  Czech  and  Hungarian,  were  a  few  of  the  rea- 
sons given  for  this  summary  retirement.  Yet 
Illowski's  orchestra  did  not  play  the  Rakoczy 
march  !  The  clergy  heard  of  his  impieties ;  a 
report  obtained  credence  that  the  Russian  com- 
poser had  written  music  for  the  black  mass,  most 
blasphemous  of  missal  travesties.  When  he  was 
told  of  this  he  smiled,  for  he  did  not  aim  at  at- 
tacking mere  sectarian  beliefs;  with  Bakounin, 
he  swore  that  there  must  be  total  destruction  of 
all  existing  institutions,  or  —  nothing! 

He  went  to  Germany  believing  the  country- 
men of  Nietzsche  would  receive  with  joy  this 
Overman  from  the  East.  There  was  no  longer 
any  Bayreuth  —  the  first  performance  of  "  Parsi- 
fal" elsewhere  had  killed  the  place  and  the  work. 
In  Munich,  the  authorities  forewarned,  Illowski 
43 


MELOMANIACS 

was  arrested  as  a  dangerous  character  and  sent 
to  Trieste.  Thence  he  shipped  to  Genoa ;  and 
once  in  Italy,  free.  On  the  peninsula  his  prog- 
ress was  that  of  a  trailing  comet.  The  feminine 
madness  first  manifested  itself  there  and  swept 
the  countryside  with  epidemic  fury.  Wherever 
he  played  the  dancing  mania  set  in,  and  the 
soldiery  could  not  put  it  down  by  force  of  arms. 
Nietzsche's  dancing  philosopher,  Zarathustra, 
was  incarnated  in  Illowski's  compositions.  Like 
the  nervous  obsessions  of  mediaeval  times,  this 
music  set  howling,  leaping  and  writhing  volatile 
Italians,  until  it  began  to  assume  the  proportions 
of  a  new  evangel,  an  hysterical  hallucination 
that  bade  defiance  to  law,  doctors,  even  the  de- 
cencies of  life.  Terrible  stories  reached  the 
Vatican,  and  when  it  was  related  that  one  of  his 
symphonic  pieces  delineated  Zarathustra's  Cave 
with  its  sinister  mockery  of  prelate  and  king,  the 
hated  Quirinal  was  approached  for  assistance, 
and  Illowski  vanished  from  Italy. 

In  the  British  Isles,  the  same  wicked  tales 
were  told  of  him.  He  was  denounced  by  priest 
and  publican  as  a  subverter  of  morals.  No  poet, 
no  demagogue,  had  ever  so  interested  the 
masses.  Musicians  of  academic  training  held 
aloof.  What  had  they  in  common  with  this 
charlatan  who  treated  the  abominable  teachings 
of  Walt  Whitman  symphonically?  He  could 
not  be  a  respectable  man,  even  if  he  were  a 
sane.  And  then  the  unlettered  tiller  of  the  soil, 
44 


THE   PIPER   OF   DREAMS 

drunken  mechanic  and  gutter  drab  all  loved  his 
music.  What  kind  of  music  was  it  thus  to  be 
understood  by  the  ignorant? 

The  police  thought  otherwise.  Illowski  gath- 
ered crowds — that  was  sufficient  to  ban  him, 
not  as  the  church  does,  with  bell,  book  and 
candle,  but  with  stout  oaken  clubs.  Forth  he 
fared,  and  things  came  to  such  a  pass  that  not 
a  steamer  dared  convey  him  or  his  band  to 
America.  By  this  time  the  scientific  reviews  had 
taken  him  up  as  a  sort  of  public  Illusionist.  Dis- 
ciples of  Charcot  explained  his  scores  —  though 
not  one  had  been  published — while  the  neo- 
moralists  gladly  denounced  him  as  a  follower  of 
the  Master  Immoralist,  a  sublimated  emotional 
expression  of  the  ethical  nihilism  of  Friedrich 
Nietzsche.  Others,  more  fanciful,  saw  in  his 
advent  and  in  his  art  an  attempt  to  overturn 
nations,  life  itself,  through  the  agency  of  corrupt- 
ing beauty  and  by  the  arousing  of  illimitablo 
desires.  Color  and  music,  sweetness  and  soft 
luxuries,  declared  these  modern  followers  of 
Ambrose  and  Chrysostom,  were  the  agencies  of 
Satan  in  the  undermining  of  morals.  Pulpits 
thundered.  The  press  sneered  at  the  new  Pied 
Piper  of  Hamelin,  and  poets  sang  of  him.  One 
Celtic  bard  named  him  "  Master  of  the  Still  Stars 
and  of  the  Flaming  Door." 

For  women  his  music  was  as  the  moth's  de 
sire.     Wherever  he  went  were  women  — women 
and  children.     Old  legends  were  revived  about 
45 


MELOMANIACS 

the  ancient  gods.  The  great  Pan  was  said  to  be 
abroad ;  rustling  in  the  night  air  set  young  folk 
blushing.  An  emotional  renascence  swept  like 
a  torrid  simoon  over  Europe.  Those  who  had 
not  heard,  had  not  seen  him,  felt,  nevertheless, 
Illowski's  subtle  influences  in  their  bosoms. 
The  fountains  of  democracy's  great  deeps  were 
breaking  up.  Too  long  had  smug  comfort  and 
utilitarianism  ruled  a  world  grown  weary  of  de- 
basing commerce.  All  things  must  have  an  end, 
even  wealth ;  and  to  the  wretched,  to  those  in 
damp  mines,  to  the  downcast  in  exile  and  in 
prisons  and  to  the  muck  of  humanity  his  name 
became  a  beautiful,  illuminated  symbol.  The 
charges  of  impiety  were  answered :  "  His  music 
makes  us  dream."  Music  now  became  ruler  of 
the  universe,  and  the  earth  hummed  tunes ;  yet 
Illowski's  maddening  music  had  been  heard  by 
few  nations. 

Humble,  poor,  asking  nothing,  always  giving, 
he  soon  became  a  nightmare  to  the  orthodox. 
He  preached  no  heresies,  promised  no  future 
rewards,  nor  warred  he  against  church  or  king- 
dom. He  only  made  music  and  things  were  not 
as  before ;  some  strange  angel  had  passed  that 
way  filling  men's  souls  with  joy,  beauty  and 
bitterness.  Duties,  vows,  beliefs  fell  away  like 
snow  in  the  sun;  families,  tribes,  states  grew 
restless,  troops  were  called  and  churches  never 
closed.  A  wave  of  belated  paganism  rolled 
over  the  world ;  thinkers  and  steersmen  of  great 
46 


THE   PIPER   OF   DREAMS 

political  and  religious  organizations  became 
genuinely  alarmed.  So  had  come  the  downfall 
of  the  classical  world :  a  simple  apparition  in  a 
far  away  Jewish  province,  and  the  Caesars  fell 
supine  —  their  empires  cracked  like  mirrors ! 
To  imprison  Illowski  meant  danger ;  to  kill  him 
would  deify  him,  for  in  the  blood  of  martyrs 
blossom  the  seeds  of  mighty  religions.  Far 
better  if  he  go  to  Paris  —  Paris,  the  cradle  and 
the  tomb  of  illusions.  There  this  restless  dema- 
gogue might  find  his  dreams  stilled  in  the  scar- 
let negations  and  frivolous  philosophies  of  the 
town ;  thus  the  germ-plasm  of  a  new  religion, 
of  a  new  race,  perhaps  of  a  new  world,  be 
drowned  in  the  drowsy  green  of  a  little  glass. 

Illowski,  this  Spirit  that  Denied,  this  new 
Mephisto  of  music,  did  not  balk  his  evil  wishers. 

"  Paris,  why  not?  She  refused  to  understand 
Berlioz,  flouted  Wagner,  and  mocked  Rodin's 
marble  egotisms,  the  ferocious,  white  stillness  of 
his  Balzac !  Perhaps  Paris  will  give  me,  if  not 
a  welcome,  at  least  repose.  I  am  tired." 

To  Paris  he  went  and  excepting  a  few  cynical 
paragraphs  received  no  attention.  The  Con- 
servatoire, the  Academic  de  Musique  did  not 
welcome  officially  this  gifted  son  of  the  Neva ; 
the  authorities  blandly  ignored  him,  though  the 
police  were  instructed  that  if  he  attempted  to 
play  in  front  of  churches,  address  mobs  or  build 
barricades,  he  must  be  confined.  Paris  had  no 
idea  of  Illowski's  real  meaning;  Paris,  even  in 
47 


MELOMANIACS 

the  twentieth  century,  always  hears  the  news  of 
the  world  last ;  besides,  she  conceives  no  other 
conquest  save  one  that  has  for -its  object  the 
several  decayed  thrones  within  her  gates.  Illow- 
ski  was  not  molested  and  his  men,  despite  their 
strange  garb  and  complexion,  went  about  freely. 
The  Russian  composer  of  ballets  was  just  then 
the  mode. 

Some  clever  caricatures  appeared  of  Illowski 
representing  him  as  a  musical  Napoleon,  cocked 
hat,  sleek  white  horse  and  all.  Another  gave 
him  the  goat's  beard  of  Brother  Jonathan, 
with  the  baton  of  a  Yankee  band-master ;  and 
then  it  was  assured  that  the  much  advertised 
composer  was  a  joking  American  masquerading 
as  a  Slav,  possibly  the  vender  of  some  new  reli- 
gious cure  born  in  the  fanatical  bake-ovens  of 
Western  America.  "  Faust "  alternated  with  "  Les 
Huguenots  "  at  the  Opera,  Pilsner  beer  was  on  tap 
at  the  Cafe  Monferino  —  why  worry  over  exotic 
stories  told  of  this  visitor's  abnormal  musical 
powers  ?  And  little  did  any  one  surmise  that  he 
had  just  given  a  symphonic  setting  to  Lingwood 
Evans's  insurrectionary  poem  with  its  ghastly 
refrain :  "  I  hear  the  grinding  of  the  swords, 
and  He  shall  come  —  "  Thus  did  Paris  unwit- 
tingly harbor  the  poet,  philosopher,  composer 
and  pontiff  of  the  new  dispensation  —  Pavel 
Illowski.  And  Lenyard  with  Scheff  was  has- 
tening to  Auteuil  to  see  Neshevna,  whose  other 
name  was  never  known. 
48 


THE   PIPER   OF   DREAMS 


III 

Lenyard  disliked  Neshevna  before  he  saw 
her;  when  they  met  he  made  no  attempt  to 
conceal  his  hatred.  He  again  told  himself  this, 
as  with  Scheff  he  pursued  the  gravel  path  lead- 
ing to  the  porter's  lodge  of  Illowski's  house. 
In  Auteuil  it  overlooked  the  Seine  which  flowed 
a  snake  of  sunny  silver  between  its  green-ribbed 
banks.  Together  the  pair  entered,  mounted  a 
low  flight  of  steps  and  rang  the  private  bell. 
Neshevna  opened  the  door.  In  the  flood  of  a 
westering  sun  the  accents  of  her  fluid  Slavic 
face  and  her  mannish  head  set  upon  narrow 
shoulders  —  all  the  disagreeable  qualities  of  the 
woman  —  were  exaggerated  by  this  bath  of  clear 
light.  Her  hard  gaze  softened  when  she  saw 
Scheff.  She  spoke  to  him,  not  noticing  the 
other : 

"  The  master  is  not  at  home."  Lenyard  con- 
tradicted her :  "  He  is ;  the  concierge  said  so." 

"  The  concierge  lies ;  but  come  in.    I  will  see." 

Following  her  they  reached  the  music  room, 
which  was  bare  of  instruments,  pictures,  furni- 
ture, all  save  a  tall  desk  upon  which  lay  a  heap 
of  music  paper.  Neshevna  made  a  loping  dart 
to  the  desk  —  she  was  like  a  wolf  in  her  move- 
ments -*•  and  threw  a  handkerchief  over  it.  Len- 
yard Watched  her  curiously.  Scheff  gave  one 
of  his  good-natured  yawns  and  then  laughed: 
*  49 


MELOMANIACS 

"  Neshevna,  we  come  to  ask  !  " 

"What?"  she  gravely  inquired.  There  was 
a  lithe  alertness  in  the  woman  that  puzzled 
Lenyard.  Scheff  lounged  on  the  window-sill. 
"  Now,  Neshevna,  be  a  good  girl !  Don't  forget 
Moscow  or  your  old  adorer." 

She  answered  him  with  sarcastic  emphasis : 
"  You  fat  fool,  you  and  your  clerical  friend 
there,  what  do  you  both  want  spying  upon 
Illowski  like  police?"  Her  voice  became  shrill 
as  she  rapidly  uttered  these  questions,  her  green 
eyes  seemed  shot  with  blood.  "  If  you  think 
I  '11  tell  either  of  you  anything  concerning  the 
new  music  —  " 

"  That 's  all  we  are  here  to  learn." 

"All?  Imbeciles!  As  if  you  or  your 
American  could  understand  Illowski  and  his 
message !  " 

"  What  message  ?  "  Lenyard's  grave  face  was 
not  in  the  least  discomposed  by  the  Cossack 
passion  of  the  woman.  "  What  message  has 
Illowski  ?  I  Ve  heard  queer  stories,  and  cannot 
credit  them.  You  are  in  his  confidence.  Tell 
us,  we  ask  in  humility,  what  message  can  any 
man's  music  have  but  the  revelation  of  beauty?  " 

Lenyard's  diplomatic  question  did  not  fail 
of  its  mark.  Neshevna  pushed  back  her  flam- 
boyant gray  hair  and  walked  about  the  room. 

"  Mummies  !  "  she  suddenly  cried.  "  As  if 
beauty  will  content  a  new  generation  fed  on 
something  besides  the  sweetmeats  and  pap  of 
5° 


THE   PIPER   OF   DREAMS 

your  pretty,  meaningless  music !  Why,  man, 
can't  you  see  that  all  the  arts  are  dead  —  save 
music?  Don't  you  know  that  painting,  litera- 
ture, creeds  —  aye,  and  the  kingdoms  are  dying 
for  want  of  new  blood,  new  ideas?  Music  alone 
is  a  vital  force,  an  instrument  for  rescuing 
the  world  from  its  moral  and  spiritual  decay. 
Nietzsche  was  a  potent  force  in  the  nineteenth 
century,  but  not  understood.  They  condemned 
him  to  a  living  death.  Lingwood  Evans,  poet, 
prophet,  is  now  too  old  to  enforce  his  message 
—  it  is  Illowski,  Illowski  alone  who  shall  be  the 
destructive  Messiah  of  the  new  millennial.  '  He 
cometh  not  to  save ;  not  peace,  but  blood  ! '  " 
The  fire  of  fanaticism  was  in  her  eyes,  in  her 
speech.  She  grasped  Lenyard  by  the  elbow: 
"  You,  you  should  serve  the  master.  Scheff  is 
too  fond  of  pleasure  to  do  anything  great.  He 
is  to  give  the  signal  —  that's  glory  enough  for 
him.  But  you,  discontented  American,  have 
the  stuff  in  you  to  make  a  martyr.  We  need 
martyrs.  You  hate  me  ?  Good !  But  you 
must  worship  Illowski.  Art  gives  place  to  life, 
and  in  Illowski's  music  is  the  new  life.  He  will 
sweep  the  globe  from  pole  to  pole,  for  all  men 
understand  his  tones.  Other  gods  have  but 
prepared  the  way  for  him.  No  more  misery, 
no  more  promises  unfulfilled  by  the  rulers  of 
body  and  soul  —  only  music,  music  like  the  air, 
the  tides,  the  mountains,  the  moon,  sun,  and 
stars  !  Your  old-fashioned  melody  and  learning, 


MELOMANIACS 

your  school-boy  rules  of  counterpoint  —  all 
these  Illowski  ignores." 

Lenyard  eagerly  interrupted  her :  "  You  say 
that  he  does  away  with  melody,  themes,  har- 
mony—  how  does  he  replace  them,  and  how 
does  he  treat  the  human  voice?"  Neshevna 
let  his  arm  fall  and  went  slowly  to  the  tall  desk. 
She  leaned  against  it,  her  hand  upon  her  square 
chin.  Scheff  still  gazed  out  upon  the  lawn 
where  splashed  a  small,  movable  fountain.  To 
Lenyard  the  air  seemed  as  if  charged  with 
electric  questionings.  His  head  throbbed. 

"You  ask  me  something  I  dare  not  tell. 
Even  Scheff,  who  knows  some  things,  dares  not 
tell.  If  Illowski's  discovery  —  which  is  based 
on  the  great  natural  laws  of  heat,  light,  gravita- 
tion, electricity  —  if  this  discovery  were  placed 
in  the  hands  of  fools,  the  world  would  perish. 
Music  has  been  so  long  the  plaything  of  sen- 
suality, the  theatre  for  idle  men  and  women,  that 
its  real  greatness  is  forgotten.  In  Illowski's 
hands  it  is  a  moral  force.  He  comes  to  destroy 
that  he  may  rebuild.  He  accomplishes  it  with 
the  raw  elements  themselves.  Remember  —  'I 
hear  the  grinding  of  the  swords,  and  He  shall 
come  — !  "  Neshevna  made  a  nervous  gesture 
and  disappeared  through  a  door  near  the  tall 
desk  covered  with  music-paper  —  the  desk 
whereon  Illowski  plotted  the  ruin  of  civilization. 

"  Now  since  you  have  seen  the  dread  labora- 
tory, don't  hang  around  that  desk ;  there 's 
52 


THE   PIPER   OF   DREAMS 

nothing  there  you  can  understand.  The  music- 
paper  is  covered  with  electrical  and  chemical 
formulae,  not  notes.  I  Ve  seen  them.  Lenyard, 
let 's  go  back  to  Paris  and  dine,  like  sensible 
men,  —  which  we  are  not."  Scheff  dragged  his 
friend  out  of  the  house,  for  the  other  was  in  a 
stupor.  Neshevna's  words  cleaved  his  very  soul. 
The  American,  the  puritan  in  him,  swiftly  rose 
to  her  eloquent  exhortation.  All  life  was  cor- 
rupt, he  had  been  taught;  art  was  corrupt,  a 
snare,  a  delusion.  Yet  —  was  all  its  appalling 
power,  its  sensuous  grandeur  to  be  wasted  in 
the  service  of  the  world,  the  flesh,  the  devil? 
Lenyard  paused.  "  Oh,  come  on,  Len.  Why 
do  you  bother  your  excitable,  sick  heart  with 
that  lunatic's  prophecies?  Illowski  is  a  big  man, 
a  very  big  man ;  but  he  is  mad,  mad !  His 
theories  of  the  decomposition  of  tone  —  he  only 
imitates  the  old  painter-impressionist  of  long 
ago  —  and  his  affected  simplicity  —  why,  he  is 
after  the  big  public,  that 's  all.  As  to  your  ques- 
tion about  what  part  the  human  voice  plays  in 
his  scheme,  I  may  tell  you  now  that  he  does  n't 
care  a  farthing  for  it  except  as  color.  He  uses 
the  voice  as  he  would  use  any  instrumental  com- 
bination, and  he  mixes  his  colors  so  wonderfully 
that  he  sometimes  polarizes  them  —  they  no 
longer  have  any  hue  or  scent.  He  should  have 
been  a  painter  not  a  composer.  He  makes  pan- 
oramas, psychological  panoramas,  not  music." 
"  You  heard  them,  saw  them?  " 
53 


MELOMANIACS 

"  Yes,"  said  Schefif,  sourly.  "  Some  of  the  early 
ones,  and  I  had  brain  fever  for  months  afterward." 

"  Yet,"  challenged  Lenyard,  "  you  deny  his 
powers?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  he  has  written  recently," 
was  the  sullen  answer,  "  but  if  the  newspapers 
are  to  be  believed,  he  is  crazy.  Music  all  color, 
no  rhythm,  no  themes,  and  then  his  preaching  of 
Nietzsche  —  it 's  all  wrong,  all  wrong,  my  boy. 
Art  was  made  for  joy.  When  it  is  anything 
else,  it 's  a  dangerous  explosive.  Chemically 
separate  certain  natural  elements  and  they  rush 
together  with  a  thunder-clap.  That 's  what 
Illowski  has  done.  It  is  n't  art.  It 's  science 
—  the  science  of  dangerous  sounds.  He  dis- 
covered that  sound-vibrations  rule  the  universe, 
that  they  may  be  turned  into  a  musical  Roent- 
gen ray.  He  presents  this  in  a  condensed  art, 
an  electric  form  —  " 

"  But  the  means,  man,  the  methods,  the  instru- 
ments, the  form  ?  "  Lenyard's  voice  was  tense 
with  excitement.  The  phlegmatic  Schefif  noticed 
this  and  soothingly  said : 

"The  means?  Why,  dear  boy,  he  just  hyp- 
notizes people,  and  promises  them  bank  accounts 
and  angel-wings.  That 's  how  he  does  the  trick. 
Here 's  the  tramcar.  Jump  in.  I  'm  dying  of 
thirst.  To  the  Monferino !  "  .  .  . 

Paris  laughed  when  Illowski  announced  the 
performance  of  his  new  orchestral  drama  named 
54 


THE   PIPER   OF   DREAMS 

'Nietzsche."  The  newspapers  printed  columns 
about  the  composer  and  his  strange  career.  A 
disused  monster  music-hall,  near  the  Moulin 
Rouge  on  Montmartre,  was  to  be  the  scene  of 
the  concert  and  the  place  was  at  once  christened 
"  Theatre  du  Tarnhelm  "  —  for  a  story  had  leaked 
out  about  the  ebon  darkness  in  which  the  Rus- 
sian's music  was  played.  This  was  surpassing 
the  almost  forgotten  Richard  Wagner.  Concerts 
in  the  dark  must  be  indeed  spirituelle.  The 
wits  giggled  over  their  jokes;  and  when  the 
kiosks  and  bare  walls  were  covered  by  placards 
bearing  the  names  of  "  Illowski  — '  Nietzsche,'  " 
with  a  threatening  sword  beneath  them,  the 
excitement  became  real.  Satirical  songs  were 
sung  in  the  cafes  chantants,  and  several  fashion- 
able clerics  wove  the  name  of  Illowski  into  their 
Sunday  preachments.  In  a  week  he  was  popu- 
lar, two  a  mystery,  three  a  necessity.  The  au- 
thorities maintained  a  dignified  silence  —  and 
watched.  Politics,  Bourbonism,  Napoleonism, 
Boulangerism  ere  this  had  crept  in  unawares 
sporting  strange  disguises.  Perhaps  Illowski 
was  a  friend  of  the  Vatican,  of  the  Czar ;  per- 
haps a  destructive,  bomb-throwing  Nihilist,  for 
the  indomitable  revolutionists  still  waged  war 
against  the  law.  Might  not  this  music  be 
the  signal  for  a  dangerous  uprising  of  some 
sort?  .  .  . 

Lenyard   was   asked    to   sit    in   a   box   with 
Neshevna  that    last   night.     Scheff  refused   to 
55 


MELOMANIACS 

join  them ;  he  swore  that  he  was  tired  of  music 
and  would  remain  in  town.  The  woman  smiled 
as  he  said  this,  then  she  handed  him  a  letter, 
made  a  little  motion  —  "the  signal." 

It  was  on  the  esplanade  that  Neshevna  and 
Lenyard  stood.  The  young  man,  weary  with 
vigils,  his  face  furrowed  by  curiosity,  regarded 
the  city  below  them  as  it  lay  swimming  in  the 
waves  of  a  sinking  sun.  He  saw  the  crosses 
of  La  Trinite  as  molten  copper,  then  dusk  and 
dwindle  in  the  shadows.  The  twilight  seemed 
to  prefigure  the  fading  of  the  human  race. 
Neshevna  walked  with  this  dreamer  to  the  rear 
of  the  theatre  —  the  theatre  of  the  Tarnhelm, 
that  was  to  darken  all  civilization.  He  asked 
for  Illowski,  but  she  did  not  reply;  she,  too,  was 
steeped  in  dreams.  And  all  the  streets  were 
thick  with  men  and  women  tumbling  up  to  the 
top. 

"  We  sit  in  a  second-tier  box,"  she  presently 
said.  "If  you  get  tired,  or  —  annoyed,  you 
may  go  out  on  the  balcony  and  look  down 
upon  the  lights  of  Paris,  though  I  fear  it  will 
be  a  dark  night.  There  is  no  moon,"  she 
added,  her  voice  dropping  to  a  mumble.  .  .  . 

They  sat  in  a  dark  box  that  last  night.  The 
auditorium,  vast  and  silent  with  the  breath- 
catching  silence  of  thousands,  lay  below  them ; 
but  their  eyes  were  glued  upon  a  rosy  light 
beginning  to  break  over  the  space  where  was 
the  stage.  It  spread,  deepened,  until  it  fairly 
56 


THE   PIPER   OF   DREAMS 

hummed  with  scarlet  tones.  Gradually  emerg- 
ing from  this  cruel  crimson  the  image  of  a  huge 
sword  became  visible.  Neshevna  touched  Len- 
yard's  hand. 

"  The  symbol  of  his  power !  "  she  crooned. 

Blending  with  the  color  of  the  light  a  musical 
tone  made  itself  seen,  heard,  felt.  Lenyard  shud- 
dered. At  last,  the  new  dispensation  was  about 
to  be  revealed,  the  new  gospel  preached.  It 
was  a  single  vibratile  tone,  and  was  uttered 
by  a  trumpet.  Was  it  a  trumpet?  It  pealed 
with  the  peal  of  bells  shimmering  high  in 
heaven.  No  occidental  instrument  had  ever 
such  a  golden,  conquering  tone.  It  was  the 
tone  of  one  who  foretold  the  coming,  and  was 
full  of  invincible  faith  and  sweetness.  Lenyard 
closed  his  eyes.  That  a  single  tone  could  so 
thrill  his  nerves  he  would  have  denied.  This, 
then,  was  the  secret.  For  the  first  time  in 
the  Christian  world,  the  beauties  of  tonal  tim- 
bres were  made  audible  —  almost  visible  ;  the 
quality  appealed  to  the  eye,  the  inner  eye. 
Was  not  the  tinted  music  so  cunningly  merged 
as  to  impinge  first  on  the  optic  nerve?  Had 
the  East,  the  Hindus  and  the  Chinese,  known 
of  this  purely  material  fact  for  ages,  and  guarded 
it  in  esoteric  silence?  Here  was  music  based 
on  simple,  natural  sounds,  the  sounds  of  birds 
and  air,  the  subtle  sounds  of  silk.  For  centu- 
ries Europe  had  been  on  the  wrong  track  with 
its  melodic  experimenting,  its  complex  of  har- 
57 


MELOMANIACS 

monies.  Illowski  was  indeed  the  saviour  of 
music  —  and  Neshevna,  her  great,  green,  lumi- 
nous eyes  upon  him,  held  Lenyard's  hand. 

The  sound  grew  in  volume,  grew  less  silken, 
and  more  threatening,  while  the  light  faded 
into  mute,  misty  music  like  the  purring  of  cats. 
A  swelling  roar  assaulted  their  ears;  nameless 
creeping  things  seemed  to  fill  the  tone.  Yet  it 
was  in  one  tonality;  there  was  no  harmony,  no 
melody.  The  man's  quick  ear  detected  many 
new,  rich  timbres,  as  if  made  by  strange  instru- 
ments. He  also  recognized  interior  rhythms, 
the  result  of  color  rather  than  articulate  move- 
ment. Then  came  silence,  a  silence  that  shouted 
cruelly  across  the  gulfs  of  blackness,  a  silence 
so  profound  as  to  be  appalling.  Sound,  rhythm, 
silence  —  the  material  from  which  is  fashioned 
the  creative  stuff  of  the  universe !  Lenyard  be- 
came restless ;  but  the  grip  on  his  fingers  tight- 
ened. He  felt  the  oppressive  dread  that  precedes 
the  flight  of  a  nightmare ;  the  dread  that  man- 
kind knows  when  sunk  in  shallow,  horrid  sleep. 
A  low,  frightened  wail  mounted  out  of  the 
darkness  wherein  massed  the  people.  Another 
tone  usurped  the  ear,  pierced  the  eyes.  It 
was  a  blinding  beam  of  tone,  higher  and  more 
undulating.  His  heart  harshly  ticking  like  a 
clock,  he  viewed,  as  in  a  vision,  the  march  of 
the  nations,  the  crash  of  falling  theocracies,  of 
dying  dynasties.  On  a  stony  platform,  vast  and 
crowded,  he  knelt  in  sackcloth  and  ashes ;  the 
58 


THE   PIPER   OF   DREAMS 

heavens  thundered  over  the  weeping  millions  of 
Nineveh ;  and  the  Lord  of  Hosts  would  not  be 
appeased.  Stretching  to  the  clouds  were  black, 
basaltic  battlements,  and  above  them  reared 
white  terraced  palaces,  as  swans  that  strain 
their  throats  to  the  sky.  The  day  of  wrath 
was  come.  And  amid  the  granitic  clashing  of 
the  elements,  Lenyard  saw  the  mighty  East 
resolving  into  dust.  Neshevna  pressed  his 
hand. 

By  the  waters  of  Babylon  he  wandered,  and 
found  himself  at  the  base  of  a  rude  little  hill. 
The  shock  of  the  quaking  earth,  the  silent 
passing  of  the  sheeted  dead,  and  the  rush  of 
affrighted  multitudes  told  him  that  another  cos- 
mic tragedy  was  at  hand.  In  a  flare  of  light- 
ning he  saw  silhouetted  against  an  angry  sky 
three  crosses  at  the  top  of  the  sad  little  hill. 
He  reeled  away,  his  heart  almost  bursting,  when 
Neshevna  grasped  him.  "  You  saw  the  death 
of  the  gods !  "  she  hoarsely  whispered. 

He  could  not  answer,  for  the  music  showed 
him  a  thunder-blasted  shore  fringing  a  bitumi- 
nous sea.  This  sea  stirred  not,  while  the  air 
above  it  was  frozen  in  salty  silence.  Faint,  thin 
light  came  up  through  the  waters,  and  Lenyard 
caught  a  glimpse  in  the  deeps  below  of  spark- 
ling pinnacles  and  bulbous  domes  of  gold ;  a 
dead  sea  rolled  over  the  dead  cities  of  the  bitter 
plain.  He  trembled  as  Neshevna  said,  with  a 
grinding  sob,  "  That  was  the  death  of  life." 
59 


MELOMANIACS 

Lanyard's  sombre  soul  modulated  to  another 
dream  —  the  last.  Suffocating  and  vague,  the 
stillness  waxed  and  ran  over  the  troubled  edges 
of  eternity.  The  Plain,  gloomy  and  implacable, 
was  illuminated  on  its  anonymous  horizon  by 
one  rift  of  naked,  leering  light.  Over  its  illimit- 
able surface  surged  and  shivered  women,  white, 
dazzling,  numberless.  As  waves  that,  lap  on  lap, 
sweep  fiercely  across  the  sky-line,  as  bisons  that 
furiously  charge  upon  grassy  wastes,  "  as  the 
rill  that  runs  from  Bulicame  to  be  portioned  out 
among  the  sinful  women,"  these  hordes  of  savage 
creatures  rose  and  fell  in  their  mad  flight  across 
the  Plain.  No  sudden  little  river,  no  harsh  ac- 
cent of  knoll  or  hill,  broke  the  immeasurable 
whiteness  of  bared  breast  and  ivoried  shoulder. 
It  was  a  white  whirl  of  women,  a  ferocious  vor- 
tex of  terrified  women.  Lenyard  saw  the  petri- 
fied fear  upon  the  faces  of  them  that  went  into 
the  Pit;  and  he  descried  the  cruel  and  looming 
figure  of  Illowski  piping  to  them  as  they  went 
into  the  Pit.  The  maelstrom  of  faces  turned 
to  their  dream-master;  faces  blanched  by  re- 
gret, sunned  by  crime,  beaming  with  sin  ;  faces 
rusted  by  vain  virtue;  wan,  weary  faces,  and 
the  triumphant  regard  of  those  who  loved  —  all 
gazed  at  the  Piper  as  vertiginously  they  boiled  by. 
The  world  of  women  passed  at  his  feet  radiant, 
guilty,  white,  glittering  and  powerless.  Lenyard 
felt  the  inertia  of  sickness  seize  him  when  he 
saw  the  capital  expression  upon  these  futile 
60 


THE   PIPER  OF   DREAMS 

faces  —  the  expression  of  insurgent  souls  that 
see  for  the  last  time  their  conqueror.  Not  a 
sign  made  these  mystic  brides,  not  a  sound ; 
and,  as  in  the  blazing  music  they  dashed  de- 
spairingly down  the  gulf  of  time,  Lenyard  was 
left  with  eyes  strained,  pulses  jangled,  lonely 
and  hopeless.  He  shivered,  and  his  heart 
halted.  .  .  . 

"This  is  the  death  of  love,"  shouted  Nesh- 
evna.  But  Lenyard  heard  her  not ;  nor  did 
he  hear  the  noise  of  the  people  beneath  —  the 
veritable  booming  of  primordial  gorilla-men. 
And  now  a  corrosive  shaft  of  tone  rived  the 
building  as  though  its  walls  had  been  of  gauze 
and  went  hissing  towards  Paris,  in  shape  a 
menacing  sword.  Like  the  clattering  of  tum- 
brils in  narrow,  stony  streets  men  and  women 
trampled  upon  each  other,  fleeing  from  the  ac- 
cursed altar  of  this  arch-priest  of  Beelzebub  — 
Illowski.  They  over-streamed  the  sides  of  Mont- 
martre,  as  ants  washed  away  by  water.  And  the 
howling  of  them  was  heard  by  the  watchers  in 
the  doomed  city  below. 

Neshevna,  her  arm  clutched  by  Lenyard's  icy 
ringers,  shook  him  violently,  and  tried  to  release 
herself.  Finding  this  impossible  she  dragged 
her  silent  burden  out  upon  the  crumpling  bal- 
cony. 

Paris  was  draped  in  flaming  clouds  —  the 
blood-red  smoke  of  mad  torches.  Tongues  of 
fire  twined  about  the  towers  of  Notre  Dame; 
6. 


MELOMANIACS 

where  the  Opera  once  stood  yawned  a  black- 
ened hole.  The  air  was  shocked  by  fulminate 
blasts  —  the  signals  of  the  careless  Scheff. 

And  the  woman,  her  mouth  filled  with  exult- 
ant laughter,  screamed,  "  Thou  hast  conquered, 
O  Pavel  Illowski !  " 


AN    EMOTIONAL   ACROBAT 

They  were  tears  which  he  drummed. 

—  HEINE. 

PERHAPS  you  think  because  I  play  upon  an 
instrument  of  percussion  I  admire  that  other 
percussive  machine  of  wood  and  wire,  the 
piano,  or  consider  the  tympanum  an  inferior 
instrument? 

You  were  never  more  mistaken,  for  I  despise 
the  piano  as  a  shallow  compromise  between  the 
harp,  tympani  and  those  Eastern  tinkling  instru- 
ments of  crystal  and  glass,  or  dulcimers  and 
cymbalom.  It  has  no  character,  no  individual- 
ity of  its  own.  It  is  deplorable  in  conjunction 
with  an  orchestra,  for  its  harsh,  hard,  unmalleable 
tone  never  blends  with  other  instruments.  It  is 
a  selfish  instrument  and  it  makes  selfish  artists 
of  those  who  devote  a  lifetime  to  it. 

Bah !  I  hate  you  and  your  pianos.  Com- 
pare it  to  the  tympani  ?  Never,  never !  It  is 
false,  insincere,  and  smirks  and  simpers  if  even 
a  silly  school  girl  sits  before  it.  It  takes  on 
the  color  of  any  composer's  ideas,  and  sub- 
mits like  a  slave  to  the  whims  of  any  virtuoso. 
I  am  disgusted.  Here  am  I,  an  old  kettle-drum- 
63 


MELOMANIACS 

mer  —  as  you  say  in  your  barbarous  English  — 
poor,  unknown,  forced  to  earn  a  beggarly  living 
by  strumming  dance  tunes  in  a  variety  hall  on  a 
hated  piano,  and  often  accompanying  singers, 
acrobats,  and  all  the  riffraff  of  a  vaudeville, 
where  a  mist  of  vulgarity  hangs  like  a  dirty 
pearl  cloud  over  all.  I  don't  look  at  my  music 
any  more.  I  know  what  is  wanted.  I  have 
rhythmic  talent.  I  conduct  myself,  although 
there  is  a  butter-faced  leader  waving  a  silly 
stick  at  us  while  I  sit  in  my  den,  half  under  the 
stage,  and  thrum  and  think,  and  blink  and 
thrum. 

And  what  do  you  suppose  I  do  with  my 
mornings  —  for  I  have  to  rehearse  every  after- 
noon with  odious  people  who  splash  their 
draggled  lives  with  feeble,  sick  music  —  ?  I  stay 
in  my  attic  room  and  play  upon  my  tympani, 
my  beloved  children.  I  have  three  of  them, 
and  I  play  all  sorts  of  scores,  from  the  wonder- 
ful first  measures  of  Beethoven's  Fifth,  to 
Saint-Saens'  Arabian  music.  Ah !  those  men 
understand  my  instrument.  It  is  no  instrument 
of  percussion  to  them.  It  has  a  soul.  It  is 
the  heart  of  the  orchestra.  Its  rhythmic  throb 
is  the  pulse  of  musical  life.  What  are  your 
strings,  your  scratching,  rasping  strings  !  What 
signifies  the  blare  of  your  brass,  or  the  bilious 
bleating  of  your  wood-wind  !  I  am  the  centre, 
the  life  giver.  From  me  the  circulation  of 
warm,  musical  blood  emanates.  I  stand  at  the 
64 


AN   EMOTIONAL  ACROBAT 

back  of  the  orchestra  as  high  as  the  conductor. 
Ah !  he  knows  it ;  he  looks  at  me  first.  How 
about  the  Fifth  Symphony?  You  now  sneer  no 
longer.  It  is  I  who  outline  with  mystic  taps 
the  framework  of  the  story.  Wagner,  great, 
glorious,  glowing  Wagner  !  —  I  kiss  his  memory 
—  he  appreciated  the  tympani  and  their  noble 
mission  in  music.  .  .  . 

Yes,  I  am  an  educated  man,  but  music  snared 
me  away  from  a  worldly  career.  Music  and  — 
a  woman ;  but  never  mind  that  part  of  it.  Do 
you  know  Hunding's  motif  in  "  Die  Walkiire"? 
Ha !  ha !  I  will  give  it  to  you.  Listen  !  Is  it 
not  beautiful?  The  stern,  acrid  warrior  ap- 
proaches. And  Wagner  gave  it  to  me,  to  the 
tympani.  Am  I  crazy,  am  I  arrogant,  to  feel  as 
I  do  about  my  darling  dwarf  children?  Look 
at  their  beloved  bellies,  so  smooth,  so  elastic,  so 
resonant !  A  tiny  tap  and  I  set  vibrating  mil- 
lions of  delicate,  ethereal  sounds,  the  timbre  of 
which  to  my  ears  has  color,  form,  substance, 
nuance,  and  thrills  me  even  to  my  old  marrow. 
Is  it  not  delicious  —  that  warm,  velvety,  dull 
percussion?  Is  it  not  delicious,  I  say?  How  it 
shimmers  and  senses  about  me !  You  have 
heard  of  drummed  tears?  I  can  make  you 
weep,  if  I  will,  with  a  few  melancholy,  muffled 
strokes.  The  drum  is  the  epitome  of  life. 
Sound  is  life.  The  cave-men  bruised  stones 
together  and  heard  the  first  music. 

I  know  your  Herbert  Spencer  thinks  dif- 
5  65 


MELOMANIACS 

fercntly,  but  bah !  what  does  he  know  about 
tympani?  Chopin  would  have  been  a  great 
tympanist  if  he  had  not  wasted  his  life  foolishly 
at  the  piano.  When  he  merely  drummed  with 
his  fingers  on  the  table,  Balzac  said,  he  made 
music,  so  exquisitely  sensitive  was  his  touch. 
Ah  me !  what  a  tympanist  was  lost  to  the  world. 
What  shading,  what  delicacy,  what  sunlight  and 
shadow  he  would  have  made  flit  across  my  little 
darlings  on  their  tripods !  No  wonder  I  hate 
the  piano ;  and  yet,  hideous  mockery  of  fate  !  I 
play  upon  an  old  grand  to  earn  my  bread  and 
wine.  I  can't  play  with  an  orchestra  —  it  is 
torture  for  me.  They  do  not  understand  me; 
the  big  noisy  boors  do  not  understand  rhythm 
or  nuance.  They  play  so  loud  that  I  cannot  be 
heard,  and  I  will  never  stoop  to  noisy  banging. 
How  I  hate  these  orchestral  players !  How 
they  scratch  and  blow  like  pigs  and  boasters ! 
When  I  did  play  with  them  they  made  fun  of 
my  red  hair  and  delicate  touch.  The  leader 
could  not  understand  me,  and  kept  on  yelling 
"  Forte,  Forte."  It  was  in  the  Fifth  of  Beethoven, 
and  I  became  angry  and  called  out  in  my  poor 
German  (ah  !  I  hate  German,  it  hurts  my  teeth)  : 
"  Nein,  so  klopft  das  Schicksal  nicht  an  die 
Pforte"  You  remember  Beethoven's  words  ! 

Well,  everybody  laughed  at  me,  and    I    got 

mad  and  covered  up  my  instruments  and  went 

home.    Jackass  !  he  wanted  me  to  bang  out  that 

wonderful  intimation  of  fate  as  though  it  were 

66 


AN   EMOTIONAL  ACROBAT 

the  milkman  knocking  at  the  door.  I  am  a  poet, 
and  play  upon  the  tympani ;  the  conductor  and 
the  orchestra  are  boors.  But  I  do  injustice  to 
one  of  them.  He  was  an  Alsatian,  and  spoke 
bad  French.  But  he  was  an  excellent  bassoon 
player.  He  often  called  on  me  and  we  played 
duets  for  bassoon  and  tympani,  and  then  read 
Amiel's  journal  aloud  and  wept.  Oh !  he  had 
a  sensitive  soul,  that  bassoon  player.  He  died 
of  the  cholera,  and  now  I  am  alone.  .  .  . 

After  my  failure  as  an  orchestral  player  I 
gave  a  concert  in  this  city,  and  played  my  con- 
certo for  seven  drums  and  wood-wind  orchestra. 
The  critics  laughed  me  to  distraction.  Instead 
of  listening  to  the  innumerable  rhythms  and 
marvellous  variety  of  nuances  I  offered  them, 
they  mocked  my  agile  behavior  and  my  curi- 
ously colored  hair.  Even  my  confreres  envied 
and  reviled  me.  I  have  genius,  so  am  hated  and 
despised.  Oh,  the  pity  of  it  all !  They  could  n't 
hear  the  tenderness,  the  fairy-like  sobbing  made 
by  my  wrists,  but  listened  with  admiration  to 
the  tinkling  of  a  piano,  with  its  hard,  unchange- 
able tone.  Oh,  the  stupidity  of  it'all !  .  .  . 

But  time  will  have  its  revenge.  I  will  not 
stir  a  finger  either.  When  I  die  the  world  of 
tone  will  realize  that  a  great  man  has  passed 
away,  after  a  wretched,  neglected  life.  I  have 
composed  a  symphony,  and  for  nothing  but 
Tympani!  Don't  smile,  because  I  have  explored 
the  most  fantastic  regions  of  rhythm,  hitherto 
67 


MELOMANIACS 

undreamed.  Tone,  timbre,  -intensity,  rhythm, 
variety  in  color,  all,  all  will  be  in  it;  and  how 
much  more  subtly  expressed  than  by  your 
modern  orchestra,  with  its  blare,  blow,  bang  and 
scratch.  And  what  great  thoughts  I  have  ex- 
pressed !  I  have  gone  beyond  Berlioz,  Wagner 
and  Richard  Strauss.  I  have  discovered  rhythms, 
Asiatic  in  origin,  that  will  plunge  you  into  mid- 
night woe ;  rhythms  rescued  from  the  Greeks  of 
old,  that  will  drive  you  into  panting  dance ; 
rhythms  that  will  make  drunkards  of  sober  men, 
warriors  of  cowards,  harlots  of  angels.  I  can 
intoxicate,  dazzle,  burn,  madden  you.  Why? 
Because  all  music  is  rhythm.  It  is  the  skeleton, 
the  structure  of  life,  love,  the  cosmos.  God  ! 
how  I  will  exult,  even  if  my  skin  crackles  in 
hell-fire,  when  the  children  of  the  earth  listen  to 
my  Tympani  Symphony,  and  go  crazy  with  its 
tappings !  .  .  . 

I  have  led  a  shiftless,  uneventful  life,  yet  I 
envy  no  one,  for  I  am  the  genius  of  a  new  art  — 
but  stay  a  moment !  An  uneventful  life,  did  I 
say?  Alas!  my  life  has  been  one  long,  des- 
perate effort  to  forget  her,  to  forget  my  love, 
my  wife.  My  God !  I  can  see  her  face  now, 
when  she  flashed  across  my  sight  at  a  provincial 
circus.  It  was  in  France.  I  was  a  young  man 
drum-mad,  and  went  to  the  circus  to  beguile  my 
time,  for  I  couldn't  practise  all  day.  Then  I 
saw  her  —  "  Mile.  Ldontine,  the  Aerial  Virtuoso 
of  the  Century,"  the  playbills  called  her.  She 
68 


AN   EMOTIONAL  ACROBAT 

was  fair  and  slim,  and  Heaven  had  smiled  into 
her  eyes. 

I  am  a  poet,  you  see.  Her  hair  was  the 
color  of  tender  wheat  and  her  feet  twinkled  star- 
wise  when  she  walked.  She  was  my  first,  my 
only  love,  my  life,  my  wife.  She  loved  me,  she 
told  me  so  soon  after  we  became  acquainted, 
and  I  believed  her;  I  believe  her  now,  some- 
times, when  I  strike  softly  the  skins  of  my  dear 
little  drum  children.  We  soon  married.  There 
were  no  impediments  on  my  side ;  my  parents 
were  dead  and  I  had  a  little  ready  money.  I  gave 
it  all  to  her.  She  took  it  and  bought  diamonds. 

"  They  were  so  handy  in  case  of  hard  luck," 
she  said,  and  smiled.  I  smiled,  too,  and  kissed 
her. 

I  kissed  her  very  often,  and  was  so  desperately 
in  love  with  her  that  I  joined  the  circus  and 
played  the  drums  there ;  hush  !  don't  tell  it  to 
any  one  —  and  the  side-drums  at  that.,  I  would 
have  even  played  the  piano  for  her,  so  frantically 
did  I  adore  her.  I  was  very  proud  of  my  wife, 
my  Leontine.  She  did  a  tremendous  act  on  the 
trapeze.  She  swung  and  made  a  flying  leap 
across  the  tent  and  caught  a  bar,  and  every  time 
I  gave  a  tap  on  the  big  drum  just  as  she  grasped 
the  trapeze.  Oh !  it  would  have  made  your 
blood  shiver  to  see  her  slight  figure  hurtling 
through  space  and  landing  safely  with  my  rhyth- 
mic accompaniment.  And  how  people  cheered, 
and  what  crowds  flocked  to  view  the  spectacle ! 
69 


MELOMANIACS 

In  some  towns  the  authorities  made  us  use  nets ; 
then  the  crowds  were  not  nearly  so  large.  People 
like  risks.  The  human  animal  is  happy  if  it 
smells  blood.  L6ontine  noticed  the  decreased 
attendance  when  the  safety  nets  were  used,  and 
begged  the  manager  to  dispense  with  them. 

He  often  did  so,  for  he  loved  money  as  much 
as  she  loved  fame.  She  was  perfectly  fearless 
and  laughed  at  my  misgivings,  so  we  usually 
did  the  act  without  nets.  .  .  . 

We  had  reached  Rouen  in  our  wanderings 
through  the  provinces,  and  I  mooned  about  the 
old  town,  sauntering  through  the  cathedral, 
plunged  in  a  reverie,  for  I  was  happy,  happy 
all  the  time.  L6ontine  was  so  good,  so  amiable, 
so  true.  She  associated  with  none  of  the 
women  of  the  circus  and  with  none  of  the  men, 
except  the  manager  and  myself. 

The  manager  reared  her;  she  had  been  a 
foundling.  She  told  me  this  at  the  beginning  of 
our  intimacy.  We  often  played  games  of  pick- 
ing out  the  handsomest  houses  and  chateaux  we 
passed,  pretending  that  her  parents  lived  in 
them.  She  was  very  jolly,  was  my  little  Le"on- 
tine,  and  remained  with  me  nearly  all  the  time, 
except  when  practising  her  difficult  feats;  this 
she  did  in  company  with  the  manager,  who  at- 
tended to  the  ropes  and  necessary  tackling. 
He  was  a  charming  fellow,  and  very  obliging. 

One  day  I  was  sitting  half-asleep  in  the  spring 
sunshine,  with   my  back  to  one  of   the  tents, 
7° 


AN   EMOTIONAL  ACROBAT 

awaiting  L^ontine's  return.  She  was,  as  usual, 
rehearsing,  and  I,  composing  and  dreaming. 
Suddenly  a  laugh  aroused  me,  and  I  heard  a 
woman's  voice : 

"But  the  young  idiot  never  will  discover 
them ;  he  is  too  blind  and  too  fond  of  drum- 
ming." 

I  tuned  up  my  ears.  Another  woman  an- 
swered in  a  regretful  tone: 

"  See  what  it  is  to  be  fascinating  like  Le"on- 
tine ;  she  gets  all  the  boy's  money,  and  has  the 
manager  besides.  She  must  earn  a  pretty 
penny."  .  .  . 

I  sat  perfectly  cold  and  still  for  several  mo- 
ments, then  managed  to  wriggle  away.  I  can 
give  you  no  account  of  my  feelings  now,  so 
many  years  have  passed ;  besides,  I  don't  think 
I  felt  at  all.  Every  day  I  became  more  and  more 
thoughtful,  and  Leontine  and  the  manager 
rallied  me  on  my  silence.  .  .  . 

At  last  I  made  up  my  mind  that  it  was  time 
to  act.  We  went  to  Lille  and  gave  there  our 
usual  display.  I  had  not  seen  Leontine  all  day, 
and  when  the  evening  came  I  sent  a  message 
telling  her  I  was  not  hungry  and  would  not  be 
home  for  supper.  I  could  be  a  hypocrite  no 
longer. 

In  the  evening  the  regular  performance  be- 
gan. I  was  in  a  gay  humor,  and  the  men  in 
the  orchestra  laughed  at  my  wit,  saying  that  1 
was  more  like  my  old  self.  My  wife's  aerial  act 
7' 


MELOMANIACS 

came  last  on  the  bill,  being  the  event  of  the 
show.  What  a  brilliant  house  we  had  !  I  still 
can  smell  the  sawdust,  the  orange  peel,  see  the 
myriad  of  faces  and  hear  the  crack  of  the  ring- 
masters' whips,  the  cries  of  the  clowns  and  the 
crash  of  the  music.  .  .  . 

"  She  comes,  L^ontine  comes !  "  shrilled  a 
thousand  throats. 

Into  the  ring  she  dashed  on  a  milk-white 
horse,  and,  throwing  off  her  drapery,  stood 
bowing. 

What  a  graceful  figure  she  had,  and  how 
lovely  she  looked  as  she  clambered  aloft  to 
her  giddy  perch !  Breathlessly  every  one  saw 
her  make  preparations  for  the  flight  through 
the  air.  The  band  became  silent;  all  necks 
were  strained  as  she  swung  lightly  to  and  fro  in 
space,  increasing  the  speed  to  gain  necessary 
momentum  for  the  final  launch. 

Off  she  darted,  like  a  thunderbolt  —  bang! 
went  my  drum  —  a  moment  too  soon.  The 
false  unaccustomed  rhythm  shook  her  nerves 
and  she  tumbled  with  her  face  toward  me. 

There  were  no  nets.  .  .  . 

Later  I  sought  the  manager.  He  was  in 
his  room,  his  head  thrust  beneath  pillows.  I 
tapped  him  on  the  shoulder;  he  shuddered 
when  he  saw  me.  "  'T  is  you  who  should  wear 
black,"  I  said.  .  .  . 


72 


ISOLDE'S    MOTHER 


Kennst  du  der  Mutter  Kiinste  nicht  ? 

—  TRISTAN  UNO  ISOLDE. 


"  I  'D  rather  see  her  in  her  grave  than  as 
Isolde  !  "  Mrs.  Fridolin  tightly  closed  her  large, 
soft  eyes,  adding  intensity  to  a  declaration  made 
for  the  enlightenment  of  her  companion  in  a 
German  railway  carriage.  The  young  woman 
laughed  disagreeably. 

"  I  mean  what  I  say,  Miss  Bredd ;  and  when 
you  know  as  much  about  the  profession  as  I  do 

—  when  you   are  an   older   woman  —  you  will 
see  I  am  right.     Meg  —  I  should  say  Margaret 

—  shall  never  sing  Isolde  with  my  permission. 
Apart   from   the  dreadfully  immoral  situation, 
just  think  of  the  costume  in  the  garden  scene, 
that  chiton  of  cheese-cloth  !     And  these  Wag- 
nerites  pretend  to  turn  up  their  nose  at '  Faust ' ! 
I  once  told  dear,  old  M.  Gounod,  when  Meg 
was  in  Paris  with  Parchesi,  his  music  was  posi- 
tively decent  compared  — 

The   train,  which   had   been  travelling   at  a 
dangerous  pace  for  Germany,  slackened  speed, 
and    the   clatter   in    the    compartment    ahead 
73 


MELOMANIACS 

caused  the  two  women  to  crane  their  heads  out 
of  the  window. 

"  Bayreuth  !  "  cried  the  younger  theatrically, 
"Bayreuth,  the  Mecca  of  the  true  Wagnerite." 
Mrs.  Fridolin  gazed  at  her,  at  the  neat  Ameri- 
can belted  serge  suit,  the  straw  sailor  hat,  the 
demure  mouse  colored  hair,  the  calm,  insolent 
eyes  —  eyes  that  bored  like  a  gimlet.  "Oh, 
you  love  Wagner?"  The  girl  hesitated,  then 
answered  in  the  broadest  burr  of  the  Middle 
West,  "  Well,  you  see,  I  have  n't  heard  much 
of  him,  except  when  the  Thomas  Orchestra 
came  over  to  our  place  from  Chicago.  So  I 
ain't  going  to  say  whether  I  like  him  or  not  till 
I  hear  him.  But  I  've  written  lots  about  the 
'  Ring '  —  "  "  Without  hearing  it?  How  very 
American ! "  —  "  And  I  'm  a  warm  admirer 
of  your  daughter.  Madame  Fridolina  always 
seemed  to  me  to  be  a  great  Wagner  singer. 
Now  she  can  sing  the  Liebestod  better  than  any 
of  the  German  women  —  " 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear ;  one  never  goes  to 
Bayreuth  for  the  singing." 

"  I  know  that ;  but  as  it 's  my  first  trip  over 
here  I  mean  to  make  the  most  of  it.  I  am  a 
journalist,  you  know,  and  I  '11  write  lots  home 
about  Wagner  and  Fridolina." 

"  Thanks  again,  my  dear  young  lady.  I  'm 
sure  you  will  tell  the  truth.  Margaret  was  re- 
fused the  Briinnhilde  at  the  last  moment  by 
Madame  Cosima — that's  Mrs.  Wagner,  you 
74 


ISOLDE'S   MOTHER 

know  —  and  she  had  to  content  herself  witn 
Fricka  in  '  Rheingold,'  and  Gutrune  in  '  Gotter- 
dammerung,'  two  odious  parts.  But  what  can 
she  do?  The  Briinnhilde  is  Gulbranson.  She 
is  a  great  favorite  in  Bayreuth,  and  has  kept 
her  figure,  while  poor  Meg  —  wait  till  you 
see  her !  " 

The  train  rounded  the  curve  and,  leaving 
behind  the  strange  looking  theatre,  surely  a 
hieratic  symbol  of  Wagner's  power,  entered 
the  station  full  of  gabbling,  curious  people  — 
Bayreuth  at  last. 

II 

The  atelier  was  on  the  ground  floor  at  the 
end  of  a  German  garden  full  of  angular  desola- 
tions. It  was  a  large,  bare,  dusty  apartment, 
the  glare  of  the  August  sun  tempered  by  green 
shades  nearly  obscuring  the  big  window  facing 
the  north.  A  young  woman  sat  high  on  a 
revolving  platform.  She  was  very  fat.  As  the 
sculptor  fixed  her  with  his  slow  glance  he  saw 
that  her  head,  a  pretty  head,  was  too  small  for 
her  monstrous  bulk;  her  profile,  pure  Greek, 
the  eyes  ox-like,  the  cups  full  of  feeling,  with 
heavy  accents  beneath  them.  Her  face,  almost 
slim,  had  planes  eloquent  with  surface  meanings 
upon  the  cheeks  and  chin,  while  the  mouth, 
sweet  for  a  large  woman,  revealed  amiability 
quite  in  accord  with  the  expression  of  the  eyes. 
75 


MELOMANIACS 

These  were  the  glory  of  her  countenance,  these 
and  her  resonant  black  hair.  Isolate  this  head 
from  the  shoulders,  from  all  the  gross  connota- 
tions of  the  frame,  and  the  trick  would  be  done. 
So  thought  the  sculptor,  as  the  problem  posed 
itself  clearly;  then  he  saw  her  figure  and 
doubted. 

"  I  am  hopeless,  am  I  not,  Herr  Arthmann?  " 
Her  voice  was  so  frankly  appealing,  so  rich  in 
comic  intention,  that  he  sat  down  and  laughed. 
She  eagerly  joined  in :  "  And  yet  my  waist  is 
not  so  large  as  Mitwindt's.  We  always  call 
her  Bagpipes.  She  is  absurd.  And  such  a 
chest  — !  Why,  I'm  a  mere  child.  Any- 
how, all  Germans  like  big  singers,  and  all  the 
German  Wagner  singers  are  big  women,  are 
they  not,  Herr  Arthmann?  There  was  Alboni 
and  Parepa-Rosa  —  I  know  they  were  not 
Wagner  singers;  but  they  were  awful  all  the 
same  —  and  just  look  at  the  Schnorrs,  Materna, 
Rosa  Sucher,  poor  Klafsky  and  — " 

"  My  dear  young  friend,"  interrupted  the 
sculptor  as  he  took  up  a  pointer  and  approached 
a  miniature  head  in  clay  which  stood  upon  a 
stand,  "  my  dear  "  —  he  did  not  say  "  friend  "  the 
second  time  —  "I  remarked  nothing  about  your 
figure  being  too  large  for  the  stage.  I  was 
trying  to  get  it  into  harmony  your  magnificent 
shoulders  and  antique  head.  That 's  all."  His 
intonation  was  caressing,  the  speech  of  a  culti- 
vated man,  and  his  accent  slightly  Scandinavian ; 
76 


ISOLDE'S   MOTHER 

at  times  his  voice  seemed  to  her  as  sweetly 
staccato  as  a  mandolin.  He  gazed  with  all  his 
vibrating  artistic  soul  into  the  girl's  humid  blue 
eyes ;  half  frightened  she  looked  down  at  her 
pretty,  dimpled  hands  —  the  hands  of  a  baby 
despite  their  gladiatorial  size. 

"  How  you  do  flatter  !  All  foreigners  flatter 
American  girls,  don't  they?  Now  you  know 
you  don't  think  my  shoulders  magnificent,  do 
you  ?  And  my  waist  —  O !  Herr  Arthmann, 
what  shall  I  do  with  my  waist?  As  Briinnhilde, 
I  'm  all  right  to  move  about  in  loose  draperies, 
but  as  Fricka,  as  Gutrune  —  Gutrune  who  falls 
fainting  beside  Siegfried's  bier!  How  must  I 
look  on  my  back?  Oh,  dear  !  and  I  diet,  never 
drink  water  at  meals,  walk  half  the  day  and 
seldom  touch  a  potato.  And  you  know  what 
that  means  in  Germany !  There  are  times 
when  to  see  a  potato,  merely  hearing  the  word 
mentioned,  brings  tears  to  my  eyes.  And  yet 
I  get  no  thinner  —  just  look  at  me !  " 

He  did.  Her  figure  was  gigantic.  She  weighed 
much  over  two  hundred  pounds,  though  the 
mighty  trussing  to  which  she  subjected  herself, 
and  a  discreet  manner  of  dressing  made  her 
seem  smaller.  Arthmann  was  critical,  and  did 
not  disguise  the  impossibility  of  the  task.  He 
had  determined  on  a  head  and  bust,  something 
heroic  after  the  manner  of  a  sturdy  Briinnhilde. 
The  preparations  were  made,  the  skeleton, 
framework  of  lead  pipe  for  the  clay,  with 
77 


MELOMANIACS 

crossbar  for  shoulders  and  wooden  "  butter- 
flies" in  position.  On  the  floor  were  water- 
buckets,  wet  cloths  and  a  vast  amount  of  wet 
clay  —  clay  to  catch  the  fleshly  exterior,  clay 
to  imprison  the  soul  —  perhaps,  of  Fridolina. 
But  nothing  had  been  done  except  a  tiny 
wax  model,  a  likeness  full  of  spirit,  slightly 
encouraging  to  the  perplexed  artist  The  girl 
was  beautiful ;  eyes,  hair,  teeth,  coloring  —  all 
enticed  him  as  man.  As  sculptor  the  shapeless, 
hopeless  figure  was  a  thing  for  sack-like  gar- 
ments, not  for  candid  clay  or  the  illuminating 
commentary  of  marble.  She  drew  a  silk  shawl 
closer  about  her  bare  shoulders. 

"  And  Isolde  —  what  shall  I  do  ?  Frau  Cosima 
says  that  I  may  sing  it  two  summers  from  now ; 
but  then  she  promised  me  Briinnhilde  two  years 
ago  after  I  had  successfully  sung  Elsa.  I  know 
every  note  of  '  Tristan,'  for  I  Ve  had  over  a 
thousand  piano  rehearsals,  and  Herr  Siegfried 
and  Caspar  Dennett  both  say  that  in  time  it  will 
be  my  great  r61e."  "  Who  was  it  you  mentioned 
besides  the  Prince  Imperial?"  —they  always 
call  Siegfried  Wagner  the  Prince  Imperial  or 
the  Heir  Apparent  in  Bayreuth  —  "  Mr.  Dennett. 
He  is  the  celebrated  young  American  con- 
ductor —  the  only  American  that  ever  con- 
ducted in  Bayreuth.  You  saw  him  the  other 
night  at  Sammett's  garden.  Don't  you  remem- 
ber the  smooth  faced,  very  good-looking  young 
man?  —  you  ought  to  model  him.  He  was  with 
78 


ISOLDE'S   MOTHER 

Siegfried  when  he  spoke  to  me."  "  And  you 
say  that  he  admires  your  Isolde?"  persisted 
Arthmann,  pulling  at  his  short  reddish  beard. 
"  Why,  of  course  !  Did  n't  he  play  the  piano 
accompaniments  ?  "  "  Was  his  wife  always  with 
you  ? "  "  Now,  Herr  Arthmann,  you  are  a 
regular  gossipy  German.  Certainly  she  was  n't. 
We  in  America  don't  need  chaperons  like  your 
Ibsen  women  —  are  you  really  Norwegian  or 
Polish?  Is  your  name,  Wenceslaus,  Bohemian 
or  Polish?  Besides,  here  I  am  alone  in  your 
studio  in  Bayreuth,  the  most  scandal-mongering 
town  I  ever  heard  of.  My  mother  would  object 
very  much  to  this  sort  of  thing,  and  I  'm  sure 
we  are  very  proper."  "  Oh,  very,"  replied  the 
sculptor;  "  when  do  you  expect  your  mother? 
To-morrow,  is  it  not?" 

The  girl  nodded.  Tired  of  talking,  she 
watched  with  cool  nervousness  the  movements 
of  the  young  man  ;  watched  his  graceful  figure, 
admirable  poses ;  his  long,  brown  fingers  smooth- 
ing and  puttering  in  the  clay;  his  sharply 
etched  profile,  so  melancholy,  insincere.  "  And 
this  Dennett?"  he  resumed.  She  opened  her 
little  mouth.  "  Please  don't  yawn,  Fridolina," 
he  begged.  "  I  was  n't  yawning,  only  trying  to 
laugh.  Dennett  is  on  your  mind.  He  seems 
to  worry  you.  Don't  be  jealous  —  Wenceslaus ; 
he  is  an  awful  flirt  and  once  frightened  me  to 
death  by  chasing  me  around  the  dressing-room 
at  the  opera  till  I  was  out  of  breath  and  black 
79 


MELOMANIACS 

and  blue  from  pushing  the  chairs  and  tables  in 
his  way.  And  what  do  you  suppose  he  gave  as 
an  excuse?  Why,  he  just  said  he  was  exercising 
me  to  reduce  my  figure,  and  had  n't  the  re- 
motest notion  of  kissing  me.  Oh,  no,  he  had  n't, 
had  he  ?  "  She  pealed  with  laughter,  her  com- 
panion regarding  her  with  tense  lips.  "  No  one 
but  a  Yankee  girl  would  have  thought  of  telling 
such  a  story."  "Why,  is  it  improper?"  She 
was  all  anxiety.  "  No,  not  improper,  but  heart- 
less, simply  heartless.  You  have  never  loved, 
Margaret  Fridolina,"  he  said,  harshly.  "  Call 
me  Meg,  Wenceslaus,  but  not  when  mamma  is 
present,"  was  her  simple  answer.  He  threw 
down  his  wooden  modelling  spatula. 

"  Oh,  this  is  too  much,"  he  angrily  exclaimed  : 
"  you  tell  me  of  men  who  chase  you  "  —  "  a  man 
Wenceslaus,"  she  corrected  him  earnestly  — 
"  you  tell  me  all  this  and  you  know  I  love 
you;  without  your  love  I  shall  throw  up 
sculpture  and  go  to  sea  as  a  sailor.  Meg,  Meg, 
have  you  no  heart?"  "Why,  you  little  boy, 
what  have  I  said  to  offend  you  ?  Why  are  you 
so  cynical  when  I  know  you  to  be  so  senti- 
mental ? "  Her  voice  was  arch,  an  intimate 
voice  with  liquid  inflections.  He  began  pacing 
the  chilly  floor  of  the  studio. 

"  Let  us  be  frank.     I  've  only  known  you  two 

months,    since  the    day    we    accidentally  met, 

leaving  Paris  for  Bayreuth.     You  have  written 

your    mother    nothing    of  our    engagement  — 

80 


ISOLDE'S   MOTHER 

well,  provisional  engagement,  if  you  will  —  and 
you  insist  on  sticking  to  the  operatic  stage.  I 
loathe  it,  and  I  confess  to  you  that  I  am  sick 
with  jealousy  when  I  see  you  near  that  lanky, 
ill-favored  German  tenor  Burgmann.".  "  What, 
poor,  big  me !  "  she  interjected,  in  teasing  ac- 
cents. "  Yes,  you,  Fridolina.  I  can  quite  sym- 
pathize with  what  you  tell  me  of  your  mother's 
dislike  for  the  r61e  of  Isolde.  You  are  not  tem- 
peramentally suited  to  it;  it  is  horrible  to  think 
of  you  in  that  second  act."  "  How  horrible  ? 
My  figure,  you  mean?"  "Yes,  your  figure, 
too,  would  be  absurd."  He  was  brutal  now. 
"  And  you  have  n't  the  passion  to  make  any- 
thing of  the  music.  You  Ve  never  loved,  never 
will,  passionately  —  "  But  I  '11  sing  Isolde 
all  the  same,"  she  cried.  "  Not  with  my  per- 
mission." "  Then  without  you  and  your  per- 
mission." She  hastily  arose  and  was  about  to 
step  down  from  her  pedestal  when  the  door 
opened. 

"  Mother !  Why,  mamma,  you  said  you 
were  n't  coming  until  Sunday."  Mrs.  Fridolin 
could  not  see  very  well  in  the  heavy  shadows 
after  the  blinding  sunlight  without.  "  What  are 
you  doing  here,  Margaret,  and  of  all  things 
alone  up  there  on  a  throne  !  Is  this  a  rehearsal 
for  the  opera?"  "I'm  not  alone,  mother. 
This  is  Wenceslaus  —  Mr.  Wenceslaus  Arth- 
mann,  the  sculptor,  mamma,  and  he  is  doing 
me  in  clay.  Look  at  it;  isn't  it  sweet?  Mr. 
6  81 


MELOMANIACS 

Arthmann,  this  is  my  mother  —  and  who  is  the 
young  lady,  mamma?  "  "Oh,  I  forgot.  I  was 
so  confused  and  put  out  not  finding  you  at  the 
station  I  dfove  at  once  to  Villa  Wahnfried  —  " 
"  Villa  Wahnfried  !  "  echoed  two  voices  in  dis- 
mayed unison.  "  Yes,  to  Frau  Cosima,  and  she 
directed  me  here."  "  She  directed  you  here?" 
"  Yes,  why  should  n't  she  ?  Is  there  anything 
wrong  in  that?"  asked  the  stately,  high-nosed 
lady  with  the  gray  pompadour,  beginning  to 
peer  about  suspiciously.  "  Oh,  no,  mamma, 
but  how  did  Frau  Cosima  know  that  I  was  here?  " 
"  I  don't  know,  child,"  was  the  testy  answer. 
"  Come,  get  down  and  let  me  introduce  you  to 
my  charming  travelling  friend,  Miss  Bredd." 
"  Miss  SaTs  Bredd,"  put  in  the  Western  girl ; 
"  I  was  named  Sais  after  my  father  visited 
Egypt,  but  my  friends  call  me  Louie."  —  "  And 
Miss  Bredd,  this  is  Mister  — "  "  Arthmann, 
madame,"  said  the  sculptor.  They  all  shook 
hands  after  the  singer  had  released  her  mother 
from  a  huge,  cavernous  hug.  "  But  Meg,  Meg, 
where  is  your  chaperon  ?"  Fridolina  looked 
at  the  young  man :  "  Why,  mamma,  it  was  the 
Hausfrau  who  let  you  in,  of  course."  Miss  Bredd 
smiled  cynically. 

Ill 

Up  the  Via  Dolorosa  toiled  a  Sunday  mob 
from  many  nations.     The  long,  nebulous  avenue, 
framed  on  either  side  by  dull  trees,  was  dusty 
82 


ISOLDE'S   MOTHER 

with  the  heels  of  the  faithful  ones;  and  the 
murmur  of  voices  in  divers  tongues  recalled  the 
cluttering  sea  on  a  misty  beach.  Never  swerv- 
ing, without  haste  or  rest,  went  the  intrepid 
band  of  melomaniacs  speaking  of  the  singers, 
the  weather  and  prices  until  the  summit  was 
reached.  There  the  first  division  broke  ranks 
and  charged  upon  the  caravansary  which  still 
stood  the  attacks  of  thirsty  multitudes  after  two 
decades.  Lucky  ones  grasped  Schoppen  of 
beer  and  Rhine  wine  hemmed  in  by  an  army 
of  expectant  throats,  for  the  time  was  at  hand 
when  would  sound  Donner's  motive  from  the 
balcony:  music  made  by  brass  instruments 
warning  the  elect  that  "  Rheingold  "  was  about 
to  unfold  its  lovely  fable  of  water,  wood  and 
wind. 

Mrs.  Fridolin  went  to  the  theatre  and  longed 
with  mother's  eyes  for  the  curtains  to  part  and 
discover  Fricka.  She  took  her  seat  uncon- 
cernedly ;  she  was  not  an  admirer  of  Wagner, 
educated  as  she  had  been  in  the  florid  garden 
of  Italian  song.  The  darkness  at  first  oppressed 
her.  When  from  mystic  space  welled  those  ele- 
mental sounds,  not  mere  music,  but  the  sigh- 
ing, droning,  rhythmic  swish  of  the  waters,  this 
woman  knew  that  something  strange  and  terrible 
was  about  to  enter  into  her  consciousness.  The 
river  Rhine  calmly,  majestically  stole  over  her 
senses ;  she  forgot  Bellini,  Donizetti,  even 
Gounod  and  soon  she  was  with  the  Rhine 
83 


MELO  MANIACS 

Daughters,  with  Alberich.  .  .  .  Her  heart 
seemed  to  stop.  All  sense  of  identity  van- 
ished at  a  wave  of  Wagner's  wand,  as  is  ab- 
sorbed the  ego  by  the  shining  mirror  of  the 
hypnotist.  This,  then,  was  the  real  Wagner  —  a 
Wagner  who  attacked  simultaneously  the  senses, 
vanquished  the  strongest  brain  ;  a  Wagner  who 
wept,  wooed,  sang  and  surged,  ravished  the 
soul  until  it  was  brought  lacerated  and  captive 
to  the  feet  of  the  victorious  master  magician. 
The  eye  was  promise-crammed,  the  ears  sealed 
with  bliss,  and  she  felt  the  wet  of  the  waters. 
She  breathed  hard  as  Alberich  scaled  the  slimy 
steeps ;  and  the  curves  described  by  the  three 
swimming  mermaids  filled  her  with  the  joy  of 
the  dance,  the  free  ecstatic  movements  of  free 
things  in  the  waves.  The  filching  of  the  Rhein- 
gold,  the  hoarse  shout  of  laughter  from  Albe- 
rich's  love-foresworn  lips,  and  the  terrified  cries 
of  the  luckless  watchers  were  as  real  as  life. 
Walhall  did  not  confuse  her,  for  now  she  caught 
clues  to  the  meaning  of  the  mighty  epic.  Wotan 
and  Fricka  —  ah,  Meg  did  not  look  so  stout,  and 
how  lovely  her  voice  sounded  !  —  Loki,  mis- 
chief-making, diplomatic  Loki ;  the  giants,  Fafner 
and  Fasolt;  Freia,  and  foolish,  maimed,  mali- 
cious Mime  —  these  were  not  mere  papier-mach6, 
but  fascinating  deities.  She  saw  the  gnomes' 
underworld,  saw  the  ring,  the  snake  and  the 
tarnhelm ;  she  heard  the  Nibelungs'  anvil  chorus 
—  so  different  from  Verdi's  —  saw  the  giants 
84 


ISOLDE'S   MOTHER 

quarrelling  over  their  booty ;  and  the  sonorous 
rainbow  seemed  to  bridge  the  way  to  a  fairer 
land.  As  the  Walhall  march  died  in  her  ears 
she  found  herself  outside  on  the  dusky,  pictur- 
esque esplanade  and  forgot  all  about  Meg, 
remembering  her  only  as  Fricka.  With  the 
others  she  slowly  trod  the  path  that  had  been 
pressed  by  the  feet  of  art 's  martyrs.  Mrs.  Fri- 
dolin  then  gave  tongue  to  her  whirring  brain : 

"  Oh  !  the  magic  of  it  all,"  she  gasped. 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  rather  agree  with  Nordau,  Mrs. 
Fridolin  —  the  whole  affair  reminds  me  of  a 
tank-drama  I  once  saw  in  Chicago."  It  was  the 
cool  voice  of  Miss  Bredd  that  sounded  in  the 
hot,  humming  lane  punctuated  by  vague,  tall 
trees.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Fridolin  and  her  party  went  to  Sam- 
mett's  for  dinner  that  evening.  This  garden, 
once  Angermann's  and  made  famous  by  Wagner, 
is  still  a  magnet.  The  Americans  listened  calmly 
to  furious  disputes,  in  a  half-dozen  tongues,  over 
the  performance  to  the  crashing  of  dishes  and 
the  huddling  of  glasses  always  full,  always  empty. 
Arthmann  ordered  the  entire  menu,  knowing 
well  that  it  would  reach  them  after  much  delay 
in  the  inevitable  guise  of  veal  and  potatoes. 
The  women  were  in  no  hurry,  but  the  sculptor 
was.  He  drummed  on  the  table,  he  made  angry 
faces  at  his  neighbors  —  contented  looking  Ger- 
mans who  whistled  themes  from  "  Rheingold  "  — 
and  when  Herr  Sammett  saluted  his  guests  with 
85 


MELOMANIACS 

a  crazy  trombone  and  crazier  perversion  of  the 
Donner  motive,  Arthmann  jumped  up  and  ex- 
cused himself.  The  two  hours  and  a  half  in  the 
theatre  had  made  him  nervous,  restless,  and  he 
went  away  saying  that  he  would  be  back  pres- 
ently. Mrs.  Fridolin  was  annoyed.  It  did  not 
seem  proper  for  three  ladies  to  remain  unaccom- 
panied in  a  public  garden,  even  if  that  garden 
was  in  Bayreuth.  Suppose  some  of  her  New 
York  friends  should  happen  by !  ..."  I  won- 
der where  he  has  gone?  I  don't  admire  your 
new  friend,  Margaret.  He  seems  very  careless," 
she  grumbled. 

"  Wenceslaus !  "  —  Mrs.  Fridolin  looked  nar- 
rowly at  her  daughter  —  "  Mr.  Arthmann,  then, 
will  be  back  soon.  Like  all  sculptors  he  hates 
to  be  cooped  up  long."  "  I  guess  he 's  gone  to 
get  a  drink  at  the  bar,"  suggested  the  practical 
Miss  Bredd.  "  How  did  you  like  my  Fricka  — 
oh,  here  's  Mr.  Dennett  —  Caspar,  Caspar  come 
over  here,  here  !  "  The  big  girl  stood  up  in  ele- 
phantine eagerness,  and  a  jaunty,  handsome 
young  man,  with  a  shaven  face  and  an  important 
chin,  slowly  made  his  way  through  the  press  of 
people  to  the  Fridolin  table.  It  was  Caspar 
Dennett,  the  conductor.  After  a  formal  presen- 
tation to  the  tall,  thin  Mrs.  Fridolin,  the  young 
American  musician  settled  himself  for  a  talk  and 
began  by  asking  how  they  liked  his  conducting. 
He  had  been  praised  by  the  Prince  Imperial 
himself — praise  sufficient  for  any  self-doubting 
86 


ISOLDE'S   MOTHER 

soul !  Thank  heaven,  he  had  no  doubt  of  his 
vocation !  It  was  Miss  Bredd  who  answered 
him : 

"  I  enjoyed  your  conducting  immensely,  Mr. 
Dennett,  simply  because  I  could  n't  see  you 
work  those  long  arms  of  yours.  ...  I  wrote 
lots  about  you  when  you  visited  the  West  with 
your  band.  I  never  cared  for  your  Wagner 
readings."  He  stared  at  her  reproachfully  and 
she  stared  in  return.  Then  he  murmured, "  I  'm 
really  very  sorry  I  did  n't  please  you,  Miss  Bredd. 
I  did  n't  know  that  you  were  a  newspaper  wo- 
man."  "Journalist,  if  you  please  !"  "I  beg  your 
pardon,  journalist.  I  'm  so  sorry  that  Mrs.  Den- 
nett is  visiting  relations  in  England.  She  would 
have  been  delighted  to  call  on  you ;  "  —  Miss 
Bredd's  expression  became  disagreeable  —  "and 
now,  Mrs.  Fridolin,  what  do  you  think  of  your 
daughter,  your  daughter  Fricka  Fridolina,  as  we 
call  her?  Won't  she  be  a  superb  Isolde  some 
day ? "  "I  hope  not,  Mr.  Dennett,"  austerely  re- 
plied the  mother.  Margaret  grasped  his  hands 
gratefully,  crying  aloud,  "  You  dear !  Is  n't  he 
a  dear,  mamma?  Only  think  of  your  daugh- 
ter as  Isolde.  Ah !  there  comes  the  deserter. 
You  thoughtless  man !  " 

The  sculptor  bowed  stiffly  when  presented, 
and  the  two  men  sat  on  either  side  of  Miss 
Fridolin,  far  away  from  each  other. 

"  Mr.  Arthmann,"  fluted  the  singer  —  she  was 
all  dignity  now  —  "  Mr.  Dennett  thinks  I  'm  quite 
87 


MELOMANIACS 

ready  for  Isolde."  "You  said  that  to  me  this 
afternoon,"  he  answered  in  a  rude  manner. 
The  conductor  glanced  at  him  and  then  at 
Margaret.  She  was  blushing.  "What  I  meant," 
said  Dennett,  quickly  turning  the  stream  his  way, 
"  What  I  meant  was  that  Miss  Fridolina  knows 
the  score,  and  being  temperamentally  suited 
to  the  r61e  — "  "  Temperamentally,"  sneered 
Arthmann.  "  Yes,  that 's  what  I  said,"  snapped 
the  other  man,  who  had  become  surprisingly  pug- 
nacious—  Fridolina  was  pressing  his  foot  with 
heavy  approval  —  "  temperamentally."  "  You 
know  Caspar"  —  the  brows  of  the  mother  and 
sculptor  were  thunderous  —  "  you  know  that 
Mr.  Arthmann  is  a  very  clever  sculptor,  and  is 
a  great  reader  of  faces  and  character.  Now 
he  says,  that  I  have  no  dramatic  talent,  no  tem- 
perament, and  ought  to — "  "Get  married," 
boomed  in  Arthmann  with  his  most  Norwegian 
accent.  The  bomb  exploded.  "  I  'd  rather  see 
her  "  —  "  in  her  grave,  Mrs.  Fridolin  "  —  "  Oh, 
you  wicked,  sarcastic  Louie  Bredd.  No,  not  in 
her  grave,  but  even  as  Isolde.  Yes,  I  admit 
that  I  am  converted  to  Wagnerism.  Wagner's 
music  is  better  for  some  singers  than  marriage. 
Prima  donnas  have  no  business  to  be  married. 
If  their  husbands  are  not  wholly  worthless  — 
and  there  are  few  exceptions  —  they  are  apt  to 
be  ninnies  and  spongers  on  their  wives'  salaries." 
Then  she  related  the  story  of  Wilski,  who  was 
a  Miss  Willies  from  Rochester.  She  married  a 
88 


ISOLDE'S   MOTHER 

novelist,  a  young  man  with  the  brightest  pos- 
sible prospects  imaginable.  What  happened? 
He  never  wrote  a  story  after  his  marriage  in 
which  he  did  n't  make  his  wife  the  heroine,  so 
much  so  that  all  the  magazine  editors  and  pub- 
lishers refused  his  stuff,  sending  it  back  with 
the  polite  comment,  Too  much  Wilski ! 

"  That 's  nothing,"  interrupted  Louie.  "  She 
ought  to  have  been  happy  with  such  a  worship- 
ping husband.  I  know  of  a  great  singer, 
the  greatest  singer  alive  —  Frutto  "  —  they  all 
groaned  —  "  the  greatest,  I  say.  Well,  she  mar- 
ried a  lazy  French  count.  Not  once,  but  a 
hundred  times  she  has  returned  home  after  a 
concert  only  to  find  her  husband  playing  cards 
with  her  maid.  She  raised  a  row,  but  what  was 
the  use  ?  She  told  me  that  she  'd  rather  have 
him  at  home  with  the  servant  playing  poker 
than  at  the  opera  where  he  was  once  seen  to 
bet  on  the  cards  turned  up  by  Calv6  in  the 
third  act  of  '  Carmen.'  I  've  written  the  thing 
for  my  paper  and  I  mean  to  turn  it  into  a  short 
story  some  day."  Every  one  had  tales  to  re- 
late of  the  meanness,  rapacity,  dissipation  and 
extravagance  of  the  prima  donna's  husband 
from  Adelina  Patti  to  Mitwindt,  the  German 
singer  who  regularly  committed  her  husband  to 
jail  at  the  beginning  of  her  season,  only  releas- 
ing him  when  September  came,  for  then  her 
money  was  earned  and  banked. 

"  But  what  has  this  to  do  with  me  ? "  peev- 
89 


MELOMANIACS 

ishly  asked  Fridolina,  who  was  tired  and  sleepy. 
"  If  ever  I  marry  it  must  be  a  man  who  will  let 
me  sing  Isolde.  Most  foreign  husbands  hide 
their  wives  away  like  a  dog  its  bone."  She 
beamed  on  Wenceslaus.  "  Then  you  will  never 
marry  a  foreign  husband,"  returned  the  sculptor, 
irritably. 

IV 

"You  must  know,  Mr.  Arthmann,  that  my  girl 
is  a  spoilt  child,  as  innocent  as  a  baby,  and  has 
everything  to  learn  about  the  ways  of  the  world. 
Remember,  too,  that  I  first  posed  her  voice, 
taught  her  all  she  knew  of  her  art  before  she 
went  to  Parchesi.  What  you  ask  —  taking  into 
consideration  that  we,  that  /,  hardly  know  you 
—  is  rather  premature,  is  it  not?"  They  were 
walking  in  the  cool  morning  down  the  green 
alleys  of  the  Hofgarten,  where  the  sculptor  had 
asked  Mrs.  Fridolin  for  her  daughter.  He  was 
mortified  as  he  pushed  his  crisp  beard  from 
side  to  side.  He  felt  that  he  had  been  far  from 
proposing  marriage  to  this  large  young  woman's 
mother;  something  must  have  driven  him  to 
such  a  crazy  action.  Was  it  Caspar  Dennett 
and  his  classic  profile  that  had  angered  him 
into  the  confession?  Nonsense!  The  con- 
ductor was  a  married  man  with  a  family.  De- 
spite her  easy,  unaffected  manner,  Margaret 
Fridolin  was  no  fool;  she  ever  observed  the 
90 


ISOLDE'S   MOTHER 

ultimate  proprieties,  and  being  dangerously  un- 
romantic  would  be  the  last  woman  in  the  world 
to  throw  herself  away.  But  this  foolish  mania 
about  Isolde.  What  of  that?  It  was  absurd  to 
consider  such  a  thing.  .  .  .  Her  mother  would 
never  tolerate  the  attempt  — 

"  Don't  you  think  my  judgment  in  this 
matter  is  just,  Mr.  Arthmann?"  Mrs.  Fridolin 
was  blandly  observing  him.  He  asked  her  par- 
don for  his  inattention ;  he  had  been  dreaming 
of  a  possible  happiness  !  She  was  very  amiable. 
"  And  you  know,  of  course,  that  Margaret  has 
prospects "  —  he  did  not,  and  was  all  ears  — 
"  if  she  will  only  leave  the  operatic  stage.  Her 
career  will  be  a  brilliant  one  despite  her  figure, 
Mr.  Arthmann ;  but  there  is  a  more  brilliant 
social  career  awaiting  her  if  she  follows  her 
uncle's  advice  and  marries.  My  brother  is  a 
rich  man,  and  my  daughter  may  be  his  heiress. 
Never  as  a  singer — Job  is  prejudiced  against 
the  stage  —  and  never  *if  she  marries  a  for- 
eigner." "  But  I  shall  become  a  citizen  of  the 
United  States,  madame."  "  Where  were  you 
born?  "  "  Bergen ;  my  mother  was  from  War- 
saw," he  moodily  replied.  "  It  might  as  well 
be  Asia  Minor.  We  are  a  stubborn  family,  sir, 
from  the  hills  of  New  Hampshire.  We  never 
give  in.  Come,  let  us  go  back  to  the  Hotel 
Sonne,  and  do  you  forget  this  foolish  dream. 
Margaret  may  never  leave  the  stage,  but  I  'm 
certain  that  she  will  never  marry  you"  She 
91 


MELOMANIACS 

smiled  at  him,  the  thousand  little  wrinkles  in 
her  face  making  a  sort  of  reticulated  map  from 
which  stared  two  large,  blue  eyes  —  Margaret's 
eyes,  grown  wiser  and  colder.  ..."  Now  after 
that  news  I  '11  marry  her  if  I  have  to  run  away 
with  her !  "  —  resolved  the  sculptor  when  he 
reached  his  bleak  claustral  atelier,  and  studied 
the  model  of  her  head.  And  how  to  keep 
that  man  Dennett  from  spoiling  the  broth,  he 
wondered.  .  .  . 

In  the  afternoon  Arthmann  wrote  Margaret  a 
letter.  "  Margaret,  my  darling  Margaret,  what 
is  the  matter?  Have  I  offended  you  by  asking 
your  mother  for  you?  Why  did  you  not  see 
me  this  morning?  The  atelier  is  wintry  without 
you  —  the  cold  clay,  corpse-like,  is  waiting  to 
revive  in  your  presence.  Oh !  how  lovely  is  the 
garden,  how  sad  my  soul !  I  sit  and  think  of 
Verlaine's  '  It  rains  in  my  heart  as  it  rains  in  the 
town.'  .  Why  won't  you  see  me?  You  are  mine 
—  you  swore  it.  My  sweet  girl,  whose  heart  is 
as  fragrant  as  new-mown  hay  "  —  the  artist  pon- 
dered well  this  comparison  before  he  put  it  on 
paper ;  it  evoked  visions  of  hay  bales.  "  Darl- 
ing, you  must  see  me  to-morrow.  To  the  studio 
you  must  come.  You  know  that  we  have  planned 
to  go  to  America  in  October.  Only  think,  sweet- 
heart, what  joy  then !  The  sky  is  aflame  with 
love.  We  walk  slowly  under  the  few  soft,  au- 
tumn, prairie  stars;  your  hand  is  in  mine,  we 
are  married !  You  see  I  am  a  poet  for  your 
92 


ISOLDE'S   MOTHER 

sake.     I  beg  for  a  reply  hot  from  your  heart. 
Wenceslaus."  .  .  . 

He  despatched  this  declaration  containing 
several  minor  inaccuracies.  It  was  late  when  he 
received  a  reply.  "  All  right,  Wenceslaus.  But 
have  I  now  the  temperament  to  sing  Isolde  ?  " 
It  was  unsigned.  Arthmann  cursed  in  a  tongue 
that  sounded  singularly  like  pure  English. 


That  night,  much  against  his  desire,  he 
dressed  and  went  to  a  reception  at  the  Villa 
Wahnfried.  As  this  worker  in  silent  clay  dis- 
liked musical  people,  the  buzz  and  fuss  made 
him  miserable.  He  did  not  meet  Fridolina, 
though  he  saw  Miss  Bredd  arm-in-arm  with 
Cosima,  Queen  Regent  of  Bayreuth.  The 
American  girl  was  eloquently  exposing  her 
theories  of  how  Wagner  should  be  sung  and 
Arthmann,  disgusted,  moved  away.  He  only 
remembered  Caspar  Dennett  when  in  the  street. 
That  gentleman  was  not  present  either ;  and  as 
the  unhappy  lover  walked  down  the  moonlit 
Lisztstrasse  he  fancied  he  recognized  the  couple 
he  sought.  Could  it  be  !  He  rushed  after  the 
pair  to  be  mocked  by  the  slamming  of  a  gate, 
he  knew  not  on  what  lonely  street.  .  .  . 

The  next  afternoon  the  duel  began.  Fridolina 
did  not  return  for  a  sitting  as  he  had  hoped ; 
instead  came  an  invitation  for  a  drive  to  the 
93 


MELOMANIACS 

Hermitage.  It  was  Mrs.  Fridolin  who  sent  it. 
Strange !  Arthmann  was  surprised  at  this  re- 
newal of  friendly  ties  after  his  gentle  dismissal 
in  the  Hofgarten.  But  he  dressed  in  his  most 
effective  clothes  and,  shining  with  hope,  reached 
the  Hotel  Sonne ;  two  open  carriages  stood  be- 
fore its  arched  doorway.  Presently  the  others 
came  downstairs  and  the  day  became  gray  for 
the  sculptor.  Caspar  Dennett,  looking  like  a 
trim  Antinous  with  a  fashionable  tailor,  smiled 
upon  all,  especially  Miss  Bredd.  Mrs.  Fridolin 
alone  did  not  seem  at  ease.  She  was  very 
friendly  with  Arthmann,  but  would  not  allow 
him  in  her  carriage.  "  No,"  she  protested,  "  you 
two  men  must  keep  Margaret  company.  I  '11 
ride  with  my  bright  little  Louie  and  listen  to 
her  anti-Wagner  blasphemies."  She  spoke  as 
if  she  had  fought  under  the  Wagner  banner 
from  the  beginning. 

Margaret  sat  alone  on  the  back  seat.  Al- 
though she  grimaced  at  her  mother's  sugges- 
tion, she  was  in  high  spirits,  exploding  over  every 
trivial  incident  of  the  journey.  Arthmann,  as 
he  faced  her,  told  himself  that  he  had  never  seen 
her  so  giggling  and  commonplace,  so  unlike  an 
artist,  so  bourgeois,  so  fat.  He  noticed,  too, 
that  her  lovely  eyes  expanded  with  the  same 
expression,  whether  art  or  eating  was  men- 
tioned. He  hardly  uttered  a  word,  for  the 
others  discussed  "  Tristan  und  Isolde  "  until  he 
hated  Wagner's  name.  She  was  through  with 
94 


ISOLDE'S   MOTHER 

her  work  at  Bayreuth  and  Frau  Cosima  had 
promised  her  Isolde — positively.  She  meant 
to  undergo  a  severe  Kur  at  Marienbad  and  then 
return  to  the  United  States.  Mr.  Grau  had  also 
promised  her  Isolde ;  while  Jean  de  Reszk6  — 
dear,  wonderful  Jean  vowed  that  he  would  sing 
Tristan  to  no  other  Isolde  during  his  American 
tourn6e !  So  it  was  settled.  All  she  needed 
was  her  mother's  consent — and  that  would  not 
be  a  difficult  matter  to  compass.  Had  she  not 
always  wheedled  the  mater  into  her  schemes, 
even  when  Uncle  Job  opposed  her?  She  would 
never  marry,  never  —  anyhow  not  until  she  had 
sung  Isolde  —  and  then  only  a  Wagner-loving 
husband. 

"And  the  temperament,  the  missing  link  — 
how  about  that?"  asked  Arthmann  sourly;  he 
imagined  that  Dennett  was  exchanging  secret 
signals  with  her.  She  bubbled  over  with  wrath. 
"  Temperament !  I  have  temperament  enough 
despite  my  size.  If  I  have  n't  any  I  know  where 
to  find  it.  There  is  no  sacrifice  I  'd  not  make 
to  get  it.  Art  for  art  is  my  theory.  First  art 
and  then  —  the  other  things."  She  shrugged 
her  massive  shoulders  in  high  bad  humor. 
Arthmann  gloomily  reflected  that  Dennett's 
phrases  at  the  Sammett  Garden  were  being 
echoed.  Mrs.  Fridolin  continually  urged  her 
driver  to  keep  his  carriage  abreast  of  the  other. 
It  made  the  party  more  sociable,  she  declared, 
although  to  the  sculptor  it  seemed  as  if  she 
95 


MELOMANIACS 

wished  to  watch  Margaret  closely.  She  had 
never  seemed  so  suspicious.  They  reached  the 
Hermitage. 

Going  home  a  fine  rain  set  in ;  the  hoods  of 
the  carriage  were  raised,  and  the  excursion 
ended  flatly.  At  the  hotel,  Arthmann  did  not 
attempt  to  go  in.  Mrs.  Fridolin  said  she  had  a 
headache,  Miss  Bredd  must  write  articles  about 
Villa  Wahnfried,  while  Dennett  disappeared  with 
Margaret.  The  drizzle  turned  into  a  downpour, 
and  the  artist,  savage  with  the  world  and  him- 
self, sought  a  neighboring  cafe  and  drank  till 
dawn.  .  .  . 

He  called  at  the  hotel  the  following  afternoon. 
The  ladies  had  gone  away.  How  gone  away  ? 
The  portier  could  not  tell.  Enraged  as  he  saw 
his  rich  dream  vanishing,  Arthmann  moved 
about  the  streets  with  lagging,  desperate  steps. 
He  returned  to  the  hotel  several  times  during 
the  afternoon  —  at  no  time  was  he  very  far  from 
it  —  but  the  window-blinds  were  always  drawn 
in  the  Fridolin  apartment  and  he  began  to 
despair.  It  was  near  sunset  when  his  Hausfrau, 
the  disappearing  chaperon,  ran  to  him  red-faced. 
A  letter  for  Herr  Arthmann !  It  was  from  her : 
"  I  Ve  gone  in  search  of  that  temperament. 
Auf  Wiedersehen.  Isolde."  Nothing  more. 
In  puzzled  fury  he  went  back  to  the  hotel. 
Yes,  Madame  Fridolin  and  the  young  lady  were 
now  at  home.  He  went  to  the  second  landing 
and  without  knocking  pushed  open  the  door. 
96 


ISOLDE'S   MOTHER 

It  was  a  house  storm-riven.  Trunks  bulged, 
though  only  half-packed,  their  contents  strag- 
gling over  the  sides.  The  beds  were  not  made, 
and  a  strong  odor  of  valerian  and  camphor 
flooded  the  air.  On  a  couch  lay  Mrs.  Fridolin, 
her  face  covered  with  a  handkerchief,  while  near 
hovered  Miss  Bredd  in  her  most  brilliant  and 
oracular  attitude.  She  was  speaking  too  loudly 
as  he  entered :  "  There  is  no  use  of  worrying 
yourself  sick  about  Meg,  Mrs.  Fridolin.  She  's 
gone  for  a  time  —  that 's  all.  When  she  finds 
out  what  an  idiotically  useless  sacrifice  she  has 
made  for  art  and  is  a  failure  as  Isolde  —  she  can 
no  more  sing  the  part  than  a  sick  cat  —  she  will 
run  home  to  her  mammy  quick  enough." 

"  Oh,  this  terrible  artistic  temperament !  " 
groaned  the  mother  apologetically.  The  girl 
made  a  cautious  movement  and  waved  Arth- 
mann  out  of  the  room.  Into  the  hall  she  fol- 
lowed, soft-footed,  but  resolute.  He  was  gaunt 
with  chagrin.  "Where  is  she?" — he  began, 
but  was  sternly  checked : 

"  If  you  had  only  flattered  her  more,  and  mar- 
ried her  before  her  mother  arrived,  this  thing 
would  n't  have  happened." 

"  What  thing?  "  he  thundered. 

"  There !  don't  be  an  ox  and  make  a  stupid 
noise,"  she  admonished.  "  Why,  Meg  —  she  is 
so  dead  set  on  getting  that  artistic  temperament, 
that  artistic  thrill  you  raved  about,  that  she  has 
eloped." 

7  97 


MELOMANIACS 

"  Eloped !  "  he  feebly  repeated,  and  sat  down 
on  a  trunk  in  the  hallway.  To  her  keen,  un- 
biassed vision  Arthmann  seemed  more  shocked 
than  sorrowful.  Then,  returning  to  Isolde's 
mother,  she  was  not  surprised  to  find  her  up 
and  in  capital  humor,  studying  the  railway 
guide. 

"  He  believes  the  fib — just  as  Dennett  did  !  " 
Miss  Bredd  exclaimed,  triumphantly;  and  for 
the  first  time  that  day  Mrs.  Fridolin  smiled. 


98 


THE   RIM   OF   FINER   ISSUES 


THERE  seemed  to  be  a  fitting  dispensation  in 
the  marriage  of  Arthur  Vibert  and  Ellenora 
Bishop.  She  was  a  plain  looking  girl  of  twenty- 
four —  even  her  enemies  admitted  her  plainness 
—  but  she  had  brains ;  and  the  absence  of 
money  was  more  than  compensated  by  her 
love  for  literature.  It  had  been  settled  by  her 
friends  that  she  would  do  wonderful  things 
when  she  had  her  way.  Therefore  her  union 
with  Arthur  Vibert  was  voted  "  singularly  auspi- 
cious." He  had  just  returned  from  Germany 
after  winning  much  notice  by  his  talent  for 
composition.  What  could  be  more  natural  than 
the  marriage  of  these  two  gifted  persons? 

Miss  Bishop  had  published  some  things  — 
rhapsodic  prose-poems,  weak  in  syntax  but 
strong  in  the  quality  miscalled  imagination. 
Her  pen  name  was  George  Bishop:  following 
the  example  of  the  three  Georges  so  dear  to 
the  believer  in  sexless  literature  —  George  Sand, 
George  Eliot  and  George  Egerton.  She  greatly 
admired  the  latter. 

Ellenora  was  a  large  young  woman  of  more 
brawn  than  tissue ;  she  had  style  and  decision, 
99 


MELOMANIACS 

though  little  amiability.  Ugly  she  was;  yet, 
after  the  bloom  of  her  ugliness  wore  off,  you 
admired  perforce  the  full  iron-colored  eyes 
alive  with  power,  and  wondered  why  nature 
in  dowering  her  with  a  big  brain  had  not  made 
for  her  a  more  refined  mouth.  The  upper  part 
of  her  face  was  often  illuminated ;  the  lower 
narrowly  escaped  coarseness;  and  a  head  of 
rusty  red  hair  gave  a  total  impression  of  strenu- 
ous brilliancy,  of  keen  abiding  vitality.  A  self- 
willed  New  York  girl  who  had  never  undergone 
the  chastening  influence  of  discipline  or  rigor- 
ously ordered  study  —  she  averred  that  it  would 
attenuate  the  individuality  of  her  style;  avow- 
edly despising  the  classics,  she  was  a  modern  of 
moderns  in  her  tastes. 

She  had  nerves  rather  than  heart,  but  did 
not  approve  of  revealing  her  vagaries  in  diary 
form.  Adoring  Guy  de  Maupassant,  she  heartily 
disliked  Marie  Bashkirtseff.  The  Frenchman's 
almost  Greek-like  fashion  of  regarding  life  in 
profile,  his  etching  of  its  silver-tipped  angles, 
made  an  irresistible  appeal  to  her;  and  she 
vainly  endeavored  to  catch  his  crisp,  restrained 
style,  his  masterly  sense  of  form.  In  the  secrecy 
of  her  study  she  read  Ouida  and  asked  herself 
why  this  woman  had  not  gone  farther,  and  won 
first  honors  in  the  race.  Her  favorite  hero- 
ines were  Ibsen's  Nora,  Rebecca  and  Hedda. 
Then,  bitten  by  the  emancipation  craze,  she 
was  fast  developing  into  one  of  the  "  shrieking 
100 


THE   RIM    OF   FINER   ISSUES 

sisterhood "  when  Arthur  Vibert  came  from 
Berlin. 

A  Frenchman  has  said  that  the  moment  a 
woman  occupies  her  thoughts  with  a  man,  art 
ceases  for  her.  The  night  Ellenora  Bishop  met 
the  young  pianist  in  my  atelier,  I  saw  that  she 
was  interested.  Arthur  came  to  me  with  letters 
from  several  German  critics.  I  liked  the  slender, 
blue-eyed  young  fellow  who  was  not  a  day  over 
twenty-one.  His  was  a  true  American  type 
tempered  by  Continental  culture.  Oval-faced, 
fair-haired,  of  a  rather  dreamy  disposition  and 
with  a  certain  austerity  of  manner,  he  was  the 
fastidious  puritan  —  a  puritan  expanded  by 
artistic  influences.  Strangely  enough  he  had 
temperament,  and  set  to  music  Heine  and  Ver- 
laine.  A  genuine  talent,  I  felt  assured,  and 
congratulated  myself  on  my  new  discovery;  I 
was  fond  of  finding  lions,  and  my  Sunday  even- 
ings were  seldom  without  some  specimen  that 
roared,  if  somewhat  gently,  yet  audibly  enough, 
for  my  visitors.  When  Arthur  Vibert  was  in- 
troduced to  Ellenora  Bishop,  I  recognized  the 
immediate  impact  of  the  girl's  brusque  personal- 
ity upon  his  sensitized  nature. 

She  was  a  devoted  admirer  of  Wagner,  and 
that  was  bond  enough  to  set  reverberating 
other  chords  of  sympathy  in  the  pair.  I  do 
not  assert  in  cold  blood  that  the  girl  deliberately 
set  herself  to  charm  the  boyish-looking  com- 
poser, but  there  was  certainly  a  basking  allure- 
101 


MELOMANIACS 

ment  in  her  gaze  when  her  eyes  brushed  his. 
With  her  complicated  personality  he  could  not 
cope  —  that  was  only  too  evident ;  and  so  I 
watched  the  little  comedy  with  considerable 
interest,  and  not  without  misgiving. 

Arthur  fell  in  love  without  hesitation,  and 
though  Ellenora  felt  desperately  superior  to 
him  —  you  saw  that  —  she  could  not  escape 
the  bright,  immediate  response  of  his  face.  The 
implicated  interest  of  her  bearing  —  though  she 
never  lost  her  head  —  his  unconcealed  adoration, 
soon  brought  the  affair  to  the  altar  —  or  rather 
to  a  civil  ceremony,  for  the  bride  was  an  ag- 
nostic, priding  herself  on  her  abstention  from 
established  religious  forms. 

Her  clear,  rather  dry  nature  had  always  been 
a  source  of  study  to  me.  What  could  she 
have  in  common  with  the  romantic  and  de- 
cidedly shy  youth?  She  was  older,  more  ex- 
perienced —  plain  girls  have  experiences  as 
well  as  favored  ones  —  and  she  was  not  fond 
of  matrimony  with  poverty  as  an  obbligato. 
Arthur  had  prospects  of  pupils,  his  composi- 
tions sold  at  a  respectable  rate,  but  the  couple 
had  little  money  to  spare ;  nevertheless,  people 
argued  their  marriage  a  capital  idea  —  from 
such  a  union  of  rich  talents  surely  something 
must  result.  Look  at  the  Brownings,  the^ 
Shelleys,  the  Schumanns,  not  to  mention 
George  Eliot  and  her  man  Lewes ! 

They  were   married.     I   was  best   man,  and 
102 


THE   RIM   OF   FINER   ISSUES 

realized  what  a  menstruum  is  music  —  what 
curious  trafficking  it  causes,  what  opposites  it 
intertwines.  And  the  overture  being  finished  the 
real  curtain  arose,  as  it  does  on  all  who  mate.  .  .  . 

I  did  not  see  much  of  the  Viberts  that  winter. 
I  cared  not  at  all  for  society  and  they  had 
moved  to  Harlem;  so  I  lost  two  stars  of  my 
studio  receptions.  But  I  occasionally  heard  they 
were  getting  on  famously.  Arthur  was  com- 
posing a  piano  concerto,  and  Ellenora  engaged 
upon  a  novel  —  a  novel,  I  was  told,  that  would 
lay  bare  to  its  rotten  roots  the  social  fabric; 
and  knowing  the  girl's  inherent  fund  of  bitter 
cleverness  I  awaited  the  new-born  polemic 
with  gentle  impatience.  I  hoped,  however,  like 
the  foolish  inexperienced  old  bachelor  I  am, 
that  her  feminine  asperity  would  be  tempered 
by  the  suavities  of  married  life. 

One  afternoon  late  in  March  Arthur  Vibert 
dropped  in  as  I  was  putting  the  finishing 
touches  on  my  portrait  of  Mrs.  Beacon.  He 
looked  weary  and  his  eyes  were  heavily  circled. 

"  Hello,  my  boy !  and  how  is  your  wife,  and 
how  is  that  wonderful  concerto  we  Ve  all  been 
hearing  about?  "  i 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  asked  for  a 
cigarette. 

"Shall  I  play  you  some  bits  of  it?"  he 
queried  in  a  gloomy  way.  I  was  all  eagerness, 
and  presently  he  was  absently  preluding  at  my 
piano. 

103 


MELOMANIACS 

There  was  little  vigor  in  his  touch,  and  I 
recalled  his  rambling  wits  by  crying,  "  The  con- 
certo, let 's  have  it !  " 

Arthur  pulled  himself  together  and  began. 
He  was  very  modern  in  musical  matters  and  I 
liked  the  dynamic  power  of  his  opening.  The 
first  subject  was  more  massive  than  musical  and 
was  built  on  the  architectonics  of  Liszt  and 
Tschaikowsky.  There  was  blood  in  the  idea, 
plenty  of  nervous  fibre,  and  I  dropped  my 
brushes  and  palette  as  the  unfolding  of  the 
work  began  with  a  logical  severity  and  a  sense 
of  form  unusual  in  so  young  a  mind. 

This  first  movement  interested  me ;  I  almost 
conjured  up  the  rich  instrumentation  and  when 
it  ended  I  was  warm  in  my  congratulations. 

Arthur  moodily  wiped  his  brow  and  looked 
indifferent. 

"  And  now  for  the  second  movement.  My 
boy,  you  always  had  a  marked  gift  for  the  lyri- 
cal. Give  us  your  romanza  —  the  romanza,  I 
should  say,  born  of  your  good  lady !  " 

He  answered  me  shortly:  "There  is  no 
romance,  I  Ve  substituted  for  it  a  scherzo.  You 
know  that 's  what  Saint- Saens  and  all  the  fel- 
lows are  doing  nowadays,  Scharwenka  too." 

I  fancied  that  there  was  a  shade  of  eager 
anxiety  in  his  explanation,  but  I  said  nothing 
and  listened. 

The  scherzo  —  or  what  is  called  the  scherzo 
since  Beethoven  and  Schumann  —  was  too 
104 


THE   RIM   OF   FINER   ISSUES 

heavy,  inelastic  in  its  tread,  to  dispel  the  blue- 
devils.  It  was  conspicuous  for  its  absence  of 
upspringing  delicacy,  light,  arch  merriment. 
It  was  the  sad,  bitter  joking  of  a  man  upon 
whose  soul  life  has  graven  pain  and  remorse, 
and  before  the  trio  was  reached  I  found  myself 
watching  the  young  composer's  face.  I  knew 
that,  like  all  modern  music  students,  he  had 
absorbed  in  Germany  some  of  that  scholastic 
pessimism  we  encounter  in  the  Brahms  music, 
but  I  had  hoped  that  a  mere  fashion  of  the  day 
would  not  poison  the  springs  of  this  fresh 
personality. 

Yet  here  I  was  confronted  with  a  painful  con- 
fession that  life  had  brought  the  lad  more  than 
its  quantum  of  spiritual  and  physical  hardship ; 
he  was  telling  me  all  this  in  his  music,  for  his 
was  too  subjective  a  talent  to  ape  the  artificial, 
grand,  objective  manner. 

Without  waiting  for  comment  he  plunged 
into  his  last  movement  which  proved  to  be  a 
series  of  ingenious  variations  —  a  prolonged 
passacaglia  —  in  which  the  grace  and  dexterity 
of  his  melodic  invention,  contrapuntal  skill  and 
symmetrical  sense  were  gratifyingly  present. 

I  was  in  no  flattering  vein  when  I  told  him  he 
had  made  a  big  jump  in  his  work. 

"  But,  Arthur,  why  so  much  in  the  Brahms 
manner?  Has  your  wife  turned  your  love 
of  Shelley  to  Browning  worship  ?  "  I  jestingly 
concluded. 

10S 


MELOMANIACS 

"  My  wife,  if  she  wishes,  can  turn  Shelley  into 
slush,"  he  answered  bitterly.  This  shocked  me. 
I  felt  like  putting  questions,  but  how  could  I? 
Had  I  not  been  one  of  the  many  who  advised 
the  fellow  to  marry  Ellenora  Bishop  ?  Had  we 
not  all  fancied  that  in  her  strength  was  his 
security,  his  hope  for  future  artistic  triumphs? 

He  went  on  as  his  fingers  snatched  at  fugitive 
harmonic  experimentings :  "  It 's  not  all  right  up 
town.  I  wish  that  you  would  run  up  some 
night.  You  Ve  not  seen  Ellenora  for  months, 
and  perhaps  you  could  induce  her  to  put  the 
brake  on."  I  was  puzzled.  Putting  the  brake 
on  a  woman  is  always  a  risky  experiment, 
especially  if  she  happens  to  be  wedded.  Besides, 
what  did  he  mean  ? 

"  I  mean,"  he  replied  to  my  tentative  look  of 
inquiry,  "  that  Ellenora  is  going  down-hill  with 
her  artistic  theories  of  literature,  and  I  mean 
that  she  has  made  our  house  a  devilish  unpleas- 
ant place  to  live  in." 

I  hastily  promised  to  call  in  a  few  days,  and 
after  seeing  him  to  the  door,  and  bidding  him 
cheer  up,  I  returned  to  the  portrait  of  Mrs. 
Beacon,  and  felt  savage  at  the  noisiness  of  color 
and  monotony  of  tonal  values  in  the  picture. 

"Good  Lord,  why  will  artists  marry?"  I 
irritably  asked  of  my  subject  in  the  frame. 
Her  sleek  Knickerbocker  smile  further  angered 
me,  and  I  went  to  my  club  and  drank  coffee 
until  long  after  midnight. 


THE    RIM    OF   FINER   ISSUES 


II 

If,  as  her  friends  asserted,  Ellenora  Vibert's 
ugliness  had  softened  I  did  not  notice  it.  She 
was  one  of  those  few  women  in  the  world  that 
marriage  had  not  improved.  Her  eyes  were 
colder,  more  secret;  her  jaw  crueller,  her  lips 
wider  and  harder  at  the  edges.  She  welcomed 
me  with  distinguished  loftiness,  and  I  soon  felt 
the  unpleasant  key  in  which  the  household  tune 
was  being  played.  It  was  amiable  enough,  this 
flat  near  Mount  Morris  Park  in  Harlem.  The 
Viberts  had  taste,  and  their  music-room  was 
charming  in  its  reticent  scheme  of  decoration 
—  a  Steinway  grand  piano,  a  low  crowded  book- 
case with  a  Rodin  cast,  a  superb  mezzotint  of 
Leonardo's  Monna  Lisa  after  Calmatta,  reveal- 
ing the  admirable  poise  of  sweetly  folded  hands 

—  surely  the  most  wonderful  hands  ever  painted 

—  while  the  polished  floor,  comforting  couches 
and  open  fireplace  proclaimed  this  apartment 
as  the  composition  of  refined  people. 

I  am  alive  to  the  harmonies  of  domestic 
interiors,  and  I  sensed  the  dissonance  in  the 
lives  of  these  two. 

Soon  we  three  warmed  the  cold  air  of  re- 
straint and  fell  to  discussing  life,  art,  literature, 
friends,  and  even  ourselves.  I  could  not  with- 
hold my  admiration  for  Ellenora's  cleverness. 
She  was  transposed  to  a  coarser  key,  and  there 
107 


MELOMANIACS 

was  a  suggestion  of  the  overblown  in  her  figure ; 
but  her  tongue  was  sharp,  and  she  wore  the  air  of 
a  woman  who  was  mistress  of  her  mansion. 
Presently  Arthur  relapsed  into  silence,  lounged 
and  smoked  in  the  corner,  while  Mrs.  Vibert 
expounded  her  ideas  of  literary  form,  and  finally 
confessed  that  she  had  given  up  the  notion  of 
a  novel. 

"  You  see,  the  novel  is  overdone  to-day. 
The  short  story  ended  with  de  Maupassant. 
The  only  hope  we  have,  we  few  who  take  our 
art  seriously,  is  to  compress  the  short  story 
within  a  page  and  distil  into  it  the  vivid  impres- 
sion of  a  moment,  a  lifetime,  an  eternity."  She 
looked  intellectually  triumphant.  I  interposed 
a  mild  objection. 

"  This  form,  my  dear  lady,  is  it  a  fitting 
vehicle  for  so  much  weight  of  expression?  I 
admire,  as  do  you,  the  sonnet,  but  I  can  never 
be  brought  to  believe  that  Milton  could  have 
compressed  '  Paradise  Lost '  within  a  sonnet." 

"  Then  all  the  worse  for  Milton,"  she  tartly 
replied.  "  Look  at  the  Chopin  prelude.  Will 
you  contradict  me  if  I  say  that  in  one  prelude 
this  composer  crowds  the  experience  of  a  life- 
time? When  he  expands  his  idea  into  the  sonata 
form  how  diffuse,  how  garrulous  he  becomes !  " 

I  ventured  to  remark  that  Chopin  had  no 
special  talent  for  the  sonata  form. 

"  The  sonata  form  is  dead,"  the  lady  asserted. 
"  Am  I  not  right,  Arthur?" 
108 


THE   RIM    OF   FINER   ISSUES 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  came  from  Arthur.  I  fully 
understood  his  depression. 

"  No,"  she  continued,  magnificently,  "  it  is 
this  blind  adherence  to  older  forms  that  crushes 
all  originality  to-day.  There  is  Arthur  with 
his  sonata  form' — as  if  Wagner  did  not  create 
his  own  form  !  " 

"  But  I  am  no  Wagner,"  interrupted  her 
husband. 

"  Indeed,  you  are  not,"  said  Mrs.  Vibert 
rather  viciously.  "  If  you  were  we  would  n't  be 
in  Harlem.  You  men  to-day  lack  the  initiative. 
The  way  must  be  shown  you  by  woman ;  yes, 
by  poor,  crushed  woman — woman  who  has  no 
originality  according  to  your  Schopenhauer; 
woman  whose  sensations,  not  being  of  coarse 
enough  fibre  to  be  measured  by  the  rude 
emotion-weighing  machine  of  Lombroso,  are 
therefore  adjudged  of 'less  delicacy  than  man's. 
What  fools  your  scientific  men  be !  " 

Mrs.  Vibert  was  a  bit  pedantic,  but  she  could 
talk  to  the  point  when  aroused. 

"  You  discredit  the  idea  of  compressing  an 
epic  into  a  sonnet,  a  sonata  into  a  prelude ; 
well,  I  Ve  attempted  something  of  the  sort,  and 
even  if  you  laugh  I  '11  stick  to  my  argument. 
I  Ve  attempted  to  tell  the  biological  history  of 
the  cosmos  in  a  single  page.  ...  I  begin  with 
the  unicellular  protozoa  and  finally  reach  hu- 
manity ;  and  to  give  it  dramatic  interest  I  trace 
a  germ-cell  from  eternity  until  the  now,  and 
109 


MELOMANIACS 

you  shall  hear  its  history  this  moment."  She 
stopped  for  breath,  and  I  wondered  if  Mrs. 
Somerville  or  George  Eliot  had  ever  talked  in 
this  astounding  fashion.  I  was  certain  that  she 
must  have  read  lamblichus  and  Porphyry. 
Arthur  on  his  couch  groaned. 

"  Mock  if  you  please,"  Ellenora's  strong  face 
flushed,  "  but  women  will  yet  touch  the  rim  of 
finer  issues.  Paul  Goddard,  who  is  a  critic  I 
respect,  told  me  I  had  struck  the  right  note  of 
modernity  in  my  prose  poem."  I  winced  at 
the  "  note  of  modernity,"  and  could  not  help 
seeing  the  color  mount  to  Arthur's  brow  when 
the  man's  name  was  mentioned. 

"And  pray  who  is  Mr.  Paul  Goddard?"  I 
asked  while  Mrs.  Vibert  was  absent  in  search 
of  her  manuscript.  Arthur  replied  indifferently, 
"  Oh,  a  rich  young  man  who  went  to  Bayreuth 
last  summer  and  poses  as  a  Wagnerite  ever 
since  !  He  also  plays  the  piano  !  " 

Arthur's  tone  was  sarcastic;  he  did  not  like 
Paul  Goddard  and  his  critical  attentions  to  his 
wife.  The  poor  lad  looked  so  disheartened,  so 
crushed  by  the  rigid  intellectual  atmosphere 
about  him,  that  I  put  no  further  question  and 
was  glad  when  Mrs.  Vibert  returned  with  her 
prose  poem. 

She  read  it  to  us  and  it  was  called 


no 


THE   RIM    OF   FINER   ISSUES 


FRUSTRATE 

O  the  misty  plaint  of  the  Unconceived  !  O  crys- 
tal incuriousness  of  the  monad  !  The  faint  swarming 
toward  the  light  and  the  rending  of  the  sphere  of 
hope,  frustrate,  inutile.  I  am  the  seed  called  Life ;  I 
am  he,  I  am  she.  We  walk,  swim,  totter,  and  blend. 
Through  the  ages  I  lay  in  the  vast  basin  of  Time  ;  I 
am  called  by  Fate  into  the  Now.  On  pulsing  ter- 
races, under  a  moon  blood-red,  I  dreamed  of  the 
mighty  confluence.  About  me  were  my  kinsfolk. 
Full  of  dumb  pain  we  pleasured  our  centuries  with 
anticipation ;  we  watched  as  we  gamed  away  the 
hours.  From  Asiatic  plateaus  we  swept  to  Nilotic 
slime.  We  roamed  in  primeval  forests,  vast  and 
arboreally  sublime,  or  sported  with  the  behemoth  and 
listened  to  the  serpent's  sinuous  irony ;  we  chattered 
with  the  sacred  apes  and  mouthed  at  the  moon ;  and 
in  the  Long  Ago  wore  the  carapace  and  danced  forth- 
right figures  on  coprolitic  sands  —  sands  stretching 
into  the  bosom  of  the  earth,  sands  woven  of  windy 
reaches  hemming  the  sun.  .  .  .  We  lay  with  the 
grains  of  corn  in  Egyptian  granaries,  and  saw  them 
fructify  under  the  smile  of  the  sphinx ;  we  buzzed  in 
the  ambient  atmosphere,  gaudy  dragon-flies  or  whirl- 
ing motes  in  full  cry  chased  by  humming-birds.  Then 
from  some  cold  crag  we  launched  with  wings  of  fire- 
breathing  pestilence  and  fell  fathoms  under  sea  to 
war  with  lizard -fish  and  narwhal.  For  us  the  su- 
preme surrender,  the  joy  of  the  expected.  .  .  .  With 
cynical  glance  we  saw  the  Buddha  give  way  to  other 
in 


MELOMANIACS 

gods.  We  watched  protoplasmically  the  birth  of 
planets  and  the  confusion  of  creation.  We  saw 
horned  monsters  become  gentle  ruminants,  and  heard 
the  scream  of  the  pterodactyl  on  the  tree -tops 
dwindle  to  child's  laughter.  We  heard,  we  saw,  we 
felt,  we  knew.  Yet  hoped  we  on ;  every  monad  has 
his  day.  .  .  .  One  by  one  the  billions  disintegrated 
and  floated  into  formal  life.  And  we  watched  and 
waited.  Our  evolution  had  been  the  latest  delayed ; 
until  heartsick  with  longing  many  of  my  brethren 
wished  for  annihilation.  .  .  . 

At  last  I  was  alone,  save  one.  The  time  of  my 
fruition  was  not  afar.  O  !  for  the  moment  when  I 
should  realize  my  dreams.  ...  I  saw  this  last  one 
swept  away,  swept  down  the  vistas  toward  life,  the 
thunderous  surge  singing  in  her  ears.  O !  that  my 
time  would  come.  At  last,  after  vague  alarms,  I  was 
summoned.  .  .  . 

The  hour  had  struck;  eternity  was  left  behind, 
eternity  loomed  ahead,  implacable,  furrowed  with 
Time's  scars.  I  hastened  to  the  only  one  in  the 
Cosmos.  I  tarried  not  as  I  ran  in  the  race.  Mo- 
ments were  precious;  a  second  meant  aeons;  and 
crashing  into  the  light  —  Alas  !  I  was  too  late.  .  .  . 
Of  what  avail  my  travail,  my  countless,  cruel  prepara- 
tions ?  O  Chance !  O  Fate !  I  am  one  of  the 
silent  multitude  of  the  Frustrate.  .  .  . 

When  she  had  finished  reading  this  strange 
study  in  evolution  she  awaited  criticism,  but 
with  the  air  of  an  armed  warrior. 

"  Really,  Mrs.  Vibert,  I  am  overwhelmed,"  I 

112 


THE    RIM    OF   FINER   ISSUES 

managed  to  stammer.  "  Only  the  most  delicate 
symbolism  may  dare  to  express  such  a  theme." 
I  felt  that  this  was  very  vague  —  but  what  could 
I  say? 

She  regarded  me  sternly.  Arthur,  catching 
what  I  had  uttered  at  random,  burst  in: 

"  There,  Ellenora,  I  am  sure  he  is  right !  You 
leave  nothing  to  the  imagination.  Now  a  sub- 
tile veiled  idealism  —  "  He  was  not  allowed  to 
finish. 

"  Veiled  idealism  indeed  !  "  she  angrily  cried. 
"  You  composers  dare  to  say  all  manner  of 
wickedness  in  your  music,  but  it  is  idealized  by 
tone,  is  n't  it?  What  else  is  music  but  a  sort  of 
sensuous  algebra?  Or  a  vast  shadow-picture 
of  the  emotions?  .  .  .  Why  can't  language  have 
the  same  privilege?  Why  must  it  be  bridled 
because  the  world  speaks  it?" 

"  Just  because  of  that  reason,  dear  madame," 
I  soothingly  said ;  "  because  reticence  is  art's 
brightest  crown ;  because  Zola  never  gives  us  a 
real  human  document  and  Flaubert  does ;  and 
the  difference  is  a  difference  of  method.  Flau- 
bert is  magnificently  naked,  but  his  nakedness 
implicates  nothing  that  is  —  " 

"  As  usual  you  men  enter  the  zone  of  silence 
when  a  woman's  work  is  mentioned.  I  did  not 
attempt  a  monument  in  the  frozen  manner 
of  your  Flaubert.  Mr.  Goddard  believes — " 
There  was  a  crash  of  music  from  the  piano  as 
Arthur  endeavored  to  change  the  conversation. 
8  113 


MELOMANIACS 

His  wife's  fine  indifference  was  tantalizing,  also 
instructive. 

"Mr.  Goddard  believes  with  Nietzsche  that 
individualism  is  the  only  salvation  of  the  race. 
My  husband,  Mr.  Vibert,  believes  in  altruism, 
self-sacrifice  and  all  the  old-fashioned  flummery 
of  out-worn  creeds." 

"  I  wonder  if  Mr.  Vibert  has  heard  of  Nietz- 
sche's '  Thou  goest  to  women  ?  Remember  thy 
whip  '  ?  "  I  meekly  questioned.  Ellenora  looked 
at  her  husband  and  shrugged  her  shoulders; 
then  picking  up  her  manuscript  she  left  the 
room  with  the  tread  of  a  soldier,  laughing  all 
the  while. 

"  An  exasperating  girl !  "  I  mused,  as  Vibert, 
after  some  graceful  swallow-like  flights  on  the 
keyboard,  finally  played  that  most  dolorously 
delicious  of  Chopin's  nocturnes,  the  one  in  C 
sharp  minor. 

That  night  in  my  studio  I  did  not  rejoice  over 
my  bachelorhood,  for  I  felt  genuinely  sad  at 
the  absence  of  agreeable  modulations  in  the 
married  life  of  my  two  friends. 

I  thought  about  the  thing  for  the  next  month, 
with  the  conclusion  that  people  had  to  work  out 
their  own  salvation,  and  resolved  not  to  visit  the 
Viberts  again.  It  was  too  painful  an  experience ; 
and  yet  I  could  see  that  Vibert  cared  for  his 
wife  in  a  weak  sort  of  a  way.  But  she  was  too 
overpowering  for  him  and  her  robust,  intellect- 
ual nature  needed  Nietzsche's  whip  —  a  stronger, 
114 


THE   RIM    OF   FINER   ISSUES 

more  passionate  will  than  her  own.  It  was 
simply  a  case  of  mismating,  and  no  good  would 
result  from  the  union. 

Later  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  selfish  and  prig- 
gish, and  resolved  to  visit  the  home  in  Harlem 
and  try  to  arrange  matters.  I  am  not  sure 
whether  it  was  curiosity  rather  than  a  laudable 
benevolence  that  prompted  this  resolve.  How- 
ever, one  hot  afternoon  in  May,  Arthur  Vibert 
entered  my  room  and  throwing  himself  in  an 
easy-chair  gave  me  the  news. 

"  She  's  left  me,  old  man,  she  's  gone  off  with 
Paul  Goddard."  .  .  . 

I  came  dangerously  near  swearing. 

"  Oh,  it 's  no  use  of  your  trying  to  say  consol- 
ing things.  She  's  gone  for  good.  I  was  never 
strong  enough  to  hold  her,  and  so  it 's  come  to 
this  disgraceful  smash." 

I  looked  eagerly  at  Arthur  to  discover  over- 
mastering sorrow ;  there  was  little.  Indeed  he 
looked  relieved ;  his  life  for  nearly  a  year  must 
have  been  a  trial  and  yet  I  mentally  confessed 
to  some  disappointment  at  his  want  of  deep  feel- 
ing. I  saw  that  he  was  chagrined,  angry,  but 
not  really  heart-hurt.  Lucky  chap  !  he  was  only 
twenty-two  and  had  all  his  life  before  him.  I 
asked  for  explanations. 

"  Oh,  Ellenora  always  said  that  I  never  under- 
stood her ;  that  I  never  could  help  her  to  reach 
the  rim  of  finer  issues.  I  suppose  this  fellow 


MELOMANIACS 

Goddard  will.  At  least  she  thinks  so,  else  she 
would  n't  have  left  me.  She  said  no  family  could 
stand  two  prima-donnas  at  the  same  time :  as  if 
I  ever  posed,  or  pretended  to  be  as  brilliant 
as  she !  No,  she  stifled  me,  and  I  feel  now  as 
if  I  might  compose  that  romanza  for  my  con- 
certo." 

I  consoled  the  young  pianist ;  told  him  that 
this  blow  was  intended  as  a  lesson  in  self-control ; 
that  he  must  not  be  downcast,  but  turn  to  his 
music  as  a  consolation ;  and  a  whole  string  of 
such  platitudes.  When  he  left  me  I  asked  my- 
self if  Ellenora  was  not  right,  after  all.  Could 
she  have  reached  that  visionary  rim  of  finer 
issues  —  of  which  she  always  prated  —  with  this 
man,  talented  though  he  was,  yet  a  slender  reed 
shaken  by  the  wind  of  her  will?  Besides,  his 
chin  was  too  small. 

He  could  not  master  her  nature.  Would  she 
be  happy  with  Paul  Goddard,  that  bright-winged 
butterfly  of  aestheticism  ?  I  doubted  it.  Perhaps 
the  feminine,  receptive  composer  was  intended 
to  be  her  saving  complement  in  life.  Perhaps 
she  unconsciously  cared  for  Arthur  Vibert ;  and 
arguing  the  question  as  dispassionately  as  I 
could  my  eyes  fell  upon  "  Thus  Spake  Zara- 
thustra,"  and  opening  the  fat  unwieldly  volume 
I  read : 

"  Is  it  not  better  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  a 
murderer  than  into  the  dreams  of  an  ardent 
woman?" 

116 


THE   RIM    OF   FINER   ISSUES 

"  Pooh  !  "  I  sneered.  "  Nietzsche  was  a  rank 
woman-hater ;  "  then  I  began  my  work  on  Mrs. 
Beacon's  portrait,  the  fashionable  Mrs.  Beacon, 
and  tried  to  forget  all  about  the  finer  issues  and 
the  satisfied  sterility  of  its  ideals. 


"7 


AN    IBSEN   GIRL 


As  Ellenora  Vibert  quietly  descended  the 
stairs  of  the  apartment  house  in  Harlem  where 
she  had  lived  with  her  husband  until  this  hot 
morning  in  May,  she  wondered  at  her  courage. 
She  was  taking  a  tremendous  step,  and  one  that 
she  hoped  would  not  be  a  backward  one.  She 
was  leaving  Arthur  Vibert  after  a  brief  year  of 
marriage  for  another  man.  Yet  her  pulse  flut- 
tered not,  and  before  she  reached  the  open 
doorway  a  mocking  humor  possessed  her. 

Her  active  brain  pictured  herself  in  the  person 
of  Ibsen's  Nora  Helmer.  But  Nora  left  children 
behind,  and  deserted  them  in  hot  blood ;  no 
woman  could  be  cold  after  such  a  night  in  the 
Doll's  House  —  the  champagne,  the  tarantella, 
the  letter  and  the  scene  with  Torvold !  No, 
she  was  not  quite  Nora  Helmer ;  and  Paul,  her 
young  husband,  was  hardly  a  Scandinavian 
bureaucrat.  When  Ellenora  faced  the  cutting 
sunshine  and  saw  Mount  Morris  Park,  green 
and  sweet,  she  stopped  and  pressed  a  hand  to 
her  hip.  It  was  a  characteristic  pose,  and  the 
first  inspiration  of  the  soft  air  gave  her  peace 

and  hardihood. 

118 


AN   IBSEN    GIRL 

"  I  Ve  been  penned  behind  the  bars  too  long," 
she  thought.  Arthur's  selfish,  artistic  absorp- 
tion in  his  musical  work  and  needless  indiffer- 
ence to  the  development  of  her  own  gifts  must 
count  no  longer. 

She  was  free,  and  she  meant  to  remain  so  as 
long  as  she  lived. 

Then  she  went  to  the  elevated  railroad  and 
entered  a  down-town  train,  left  it  at  Cortlandt 
Street,  reached  the  Pennsylvania  depot  before 
midday,  and  in  the  waiting-room  met  Paul 
Goddard.  A  few  minutes  later  they  were  on 
the  Philadelphia  train.  The  second  chapter 
of  Ellenora  Vibert's  life  began  —  and  most 
happily. 

II 

Paul  Goddard,  after  he  had  returned  from 
Bayreuth,  gave  his  musical  friends  much  pain 
by  his  indifference  to  old  tastes.  His  mother, 
Mrs.  Goddard  of  Madison  Square,  was  not 
needlessly  alarmed.  She  told  her  friends  that 
Paul  always  had  been  a  butterfly,  sipping  at 
many  pretty  arts.  She  included  among  these 
fine  arts,  girls.  Paul's  devotion  to  golf  and  a 
certain  rich  young  woman  gave  her  fine  mater- 
nal satisfaction.  "  He  stays  away  from  that 
odious  Bohemian  crowd,  and  as  long  as  he  does 
that  I  am  satisfied.  Paul  is  too  much  of  a  gen- 
tleman to  make  a  good  musician." 
119 


MELOMANIACS 

During  the  winter  she  saw  little  of  her  son. 
His  bachelor  dinners  were  pronounced  models, 
but  the  musical  mob  he  let  alone.  "  Paul  must 
be  going  in  for  something  stunning,"  they  said 
at  his  club,  and  when  he  took  off  his  moustache 
there  was  a  protest. 

The  young  man  was  not  pervious  to  ridicule. 
He  had  found  something  new  and  as  he  was 
fond  of  experimenting  and  put  his  soul  into 
all  he  did,  was  generally  rewarded  for  his 
earnestness.  He  met  Mrs.  Arthur  Vibert  at  the 
reception  of  a  portrait-painter,  and  her  type 
being  new  to  him,  resolved  to  study  it. 

Presently  he  went  to  the  art  galleries  with  the 
lady,  and  to  all  the  piano  recitals  he  could  bid 
her.  He  called  several  times  and  admired  her 
husband  greatly ;  but  she  snubbed  this  admira- 
tion and  he  consoled  himself  by  admiring  in- 
stead the  intellect  of  the  wife. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  confided  to  him  one  Febru- 
ary afternoon  at  Sherry's,  "  I  suppose  you  think 
I  am  not  a  proper  wife  because  I  don't  sit  home 
at  his  feet  and  worship  my  young  genius?  " 

Paul  looked  at  her  strong,  ugly  face  and  deep 
iron-colored  eyes,  and  smiled  ironically. 

"  You  don't  go  in  for  that  sort  of  thing,  I 
suppose.  If  you  did  love  him  would  you 
acknowledge  it  to  any  one,  even  to  yourself — 
or  to  me  ?  " 

Ellenora  flushed  slightly  and  put  down  her 
glass. 

120 


AN   IBSEN   GIRL 

"  My  dear  man,  when  you  know  me  better 
you  won't  ask  such  a  question.  I  always  say 
what  I  mean." 

"  And  I  don't."    They  fell  to  fugitive  thinking. 

"  What  poet  wrote  '  the  bright  disorder  of 
the  stars  is  solved  by  music  '  ?  " 

"  I  never  read  modern  verse." 

"  Yes,  but  this  is  not  as  modern  as  that  cornet- 
virtuoso  Kipling,  or  as  ancient  as  Tennyson, 
if  you  must  know." 

"  What  has  it  to  do  with  you  ?  You  are  all 
that  I  am  interested  in  — at  the  present."  Paul 
smiled. 

"  Don't  flatter  me,  Mr.  Goddard.  I  hate  it. 
It 's  a  cheap  trick  of  the  enemy.  Flatter  a 
woman,  tell  her  that  she  is  unlike  her  sex,  re- 
peat to  her  your  wonderment  at  her  masculine 
intellect,  and  see  how  meekly  she  lowers  her 
standard  and  becomes  your  bondslave." 

"  Hello !  you  have  been  through  the  mill," 
said  Paul,  brightly.  "  If  I  thought  that  it  would 
do  any  good,  be  of  any  use,  I  would  mentally 
plump  on  my  knees  and  say  to  you  that  Elle- 
nora  Vibert  is  unlike  any  woman  I  ever  met." 
Ellenora  half  rose  from  the  table,  looking  sar- 
castically at  him. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Goddard,  don't  make  fun. 
You  have  hurt  me  more  than  I  dare  tell  you. 
I  fancied  that  you  were  a  friend,  the  true  sort." 
She  was  all  steel  and  glitter  now.  Paul  openly 
admired  her. 

121 


MELOMANIACS 

"  Mrs.  Vibert,  I  beg  your  pardon.  Please  for- 
get what  I  said.  I  do  enjoy  your  companion- 
ship, and  you  know  I  am  not  a  lady-killer. 
Tell  me  that  you  forgive  me,  and  we  will  talk 
about  that  lovely  line  you  quoted  from  —  ?  " 

"  Coventry  Patmore,  a  dead  poet.  He  it  was 
that  spoke  of  Wagner  as  a  musical  impostor, 
and  of  the  grinning  woman  in  every  canvas  of 
Leonardo  da  Vinci.  I  enjoy  his  '  Angel  in  the 
House  '  so  much,  because  it  shows  me  the  sort 
of  a  woman  I  am  not  and  the  sort  of  a  woman 
we  modern  women  are  trying  to  outlive.  .  .  . 
Yes,  '  the  bright  disorder  of  the  stars  is  solved 
by  music,'  he  sings ;  and  I  remember  reading 
somewhere  in  Henry  James  that  music  is  a 
solvent.  But  it 's  false  —  false  in  my  case.  Mr. 
Vibert  is,  as  you  know,  a  talented  young  man. 
Well,  his  music  bores  me.  He  is  said  to  have 
genius,  yet  his  music  never  sounds  as  if  it  had 
any  fire  in  it ;  it  is  as  cold  as  salt.  Why  should 
I  be  solved  by  his  music?  " 

Ellenora  upset  her  glass  and  laughed.  Paul 
joined  in  at  a  respectful  pace.  The  woman  was 
beyond  him.  He  gave  her  a  long  glance  and 
she  returned  it,  but  not  ardently ;  only  curiosity 
was  in  her  insistent  gaze. 

"  Ah !  Youth  is  an  alley  ambuscaded  by 
stars,"  he  proclaimed.  The  phrase  had  cost 
him  midnight  labor. 

"  Don't  try  to  be  epigrammatic,"  she  retorted, 
"  it  does  n't  suit  your  mental  complexion.  I  '11 
122 


AN    IBSEN   GIRL 

be  glad,  then,  when  my  youth  has  passed.  It's 
a  time  of  turmoil  during  which  one  can't  really 
think  clearly.  Give  me  cool  old  age." 

"  And  the  future?" 

"  I  leave  that  to  the  licensed  victuallers  of 
eternity."  Paul  experienced  a  thrill.  The 
woman's  audacity  was  boundless.  Did  she 
believe  in  anything?  .  .  . 

"  I  wonder  why  your  husband  does  not  give 
you  the  love  he  puts  into  his  music." 

"  He  has  not  suffered  enough  yet.  You  know 
what  George  Moore  says  about  the  '  sadness  of 
life  being  the  joy  of  art !  '  .  .  .  Besides,  Arthur 
is  only  half  a  man  if  he  can't  give  it  to  both. 
Where  is  your  masculine  objectivity,  then?  "  she 
retorted. 

"  Lord,  what  a  woman  !  '  Masculine  objec- 
tivity,' and  I  suppose  '  feminine  subjectivity ' 
too.  I  never  met  such  a  blue-stocking.  Do  you 
remember  how  John  Ruskin  abused  those  odious 
terms  '  objective '  and  '  subjective '  ?  "  Paul  asked. 

"  I  can't  read  Ruskin.  He  is  all  landscape 
decoration ;  besides,  he  believes  in  the  biblical 
attitude  of  woman.  Put  a  woman  on  the  mantel- 
piece and  call  her  luscious,  poetic  names  and 
then  see  how  soon  she  '11  hop  down  when  an- 
other man  simply  cries  '  I  love  you.'  If  a  man 
wishes  to  spoil  a  woman  successfully  let  him 
idealize  her." 

"  Poor  Ruskin !     There  are  some  men  in  this 
world  too  fine  for  women."     Paul  sighed,  and 
123 


MELOMANIACS 

slily  watched  Ellenora  as  she  cracked  almonds 
with  her  strong  white  fingers. 

"  Fine  fiddlesticks  !  "  she  ejaculated.  "  Don't 
get  sentimental,  Mr.  Goddard,  or  else  I  '11  think 
you  have  a  heart.  You  are  trying  to  flirt  with 
me.  I  know  you  are.  Take  me  away  from 
this  place  and  let  us  walk,  walk !  Heavens ! 
I  'd  like  to  walk  to  the  Battery  and  smell  the 
sea !  " 

Paul  discreetly  stopped,  and  the  pair  started 
up  Fifth  Avenue.  The  day  was  a  fair  one ; 
the  sky  was  stuffed  with  plumy  clouds  and  the 
rich  colors  of  a  reverberating  sunset.  The  two 
healthy  beings  sniffed  the  crisp  air,  talked  of 
themselves  as  only  selfish  young  people  can, 
and  at  Fifty-ninth  street,  Ellenora  becoming 
tired,  waited  for  a  cross-town  car  —  she  ex- 
pected some  people  at  her  house  in  the  even- 
ing, and  must  be  home  early.  Paul  was  bidden, 
but  declined;  then  without  savor  of  affection 
they  said  good-by. 

The  man  went  slowly  down  the  avenue  think- 
ing :  "  Of  all  the  women  I  Ve  met,  this  is 
the  most  perverse,  heartless,  daring."  He  re- 
called his  Bayreuth  experiences,  and  analyzed 
Ellenora.  Her  supple,  robust  figure  attracted 
his  senses ;  her  face  was  interesting ;  she  had 
brains,  uncommon  brains.  What  would  she 
become?  Not  a  poet,  not  a  novelist.  Perhaps 
a  literary  critic,  like  Sainte-Beuve  with  shin- 
ing Monday  morning  reviews.  Perhaps  —  yes, 
124 


AN   IBSEN   GIRL 

perhaps  a  critic,  a  writer  of  bizarre  prose-poems ; 
she  has  personal  style,  she  is  herself,  and  no 
one  else. 

"  That 's  it,"  said  Paul,  half  aloud ;  "  she  has 
style,  and  I  admire  style  above  everything." 
He  resolved  on  meeting  Ellenora  as  often  as  he 
could.  .  .  . 

The  following  month  he  saw  much  of  Arthur 
Vibert's  wife,  and  found  himself  a  fool  in  her 
strong  grasp.  The  girl  had  such  baffling  con- 
trasts of  character,  such  slippery  moods,  such 
abundant  fantasy  that  the  young  man  —  volatil- 
ity itself — lost  his  footing,  his  fine  sense  of 
honor  and  made  love  to  this  sphinx  of  the  ink- 
pot, was  mocked  and  flouted  but  never  entirely 
driven  from  her  presence.  More  than  any  other 
woman,  Ellenora  enjoyed  the  conquest  of  man. 
She  mastered  Paul  as  she  had  mastered  Arthur, 
easily;  but  there  was  more  of  the  man  of  the 
world,  more  of  the  animal  in  the  amateur,  and 
the  silkiness  of  her  husband,  at  first  an  amuse- 
ment, finally  angered  her. 

Vibert  knew  that  his  wife  saw  Paul  much  too 
often  for  his  own  edification,  but  only  protested 
once,  and  so  feebly  that  she  laughed  at  him. 

"  Arthur,"  she  said,  taking  him  by  his  slender 
shoulders,  "  why  don't  you  come  home  some 
night  in  a  jealous  rage  and  beat  me?  Perhaps 
then  I  might  love  you.  As  it  is,  Mr.  Goddard 
only  amuses  me ;  besides,  I  read  him  my  new 
stories,  otherwise  I  don't  care  an  iota  for  him." 


MELOMANIACS 

He  lifted  his  eyebrows,  went  to  the  piano  and 
played  the  last  movement  of  his  new  concerto, 
played  it  with  all  the  fire  he  could  master, 
his  face  white,  muscles  angry,  a  timid  man 
transformed. 

"  Why  don't  you  beat  me  instead  of  the 
piano,  dear?  "  she  cried  out  mockingly;  "  some 
women,  they  say,  can  be  subdued  in  that 
fashion."  He  rushed  from  the  room.  .  .  . 

April  was  closing  when  Vibert,  summoned  to 
Washington,  gave  a  piano  recital  there,  and 
Ellenora  went  down-town  to  dinner  with  God- 
dard.  She  was  looking  well,  her  spring  hat 
and  new  gown  were  very  becoming.  As  they 
sat  at  Martin's  eating  strawberries,  Paul  ap- 
proved of  her  exceedingly.  He  had  been  drink- 
ing, and  the  burgundy  and  champagne  at  dinner 
made  him  reckless. 

"  See  here,  Ellenora  Vibert,  where  is  all  this 
going  to  end?  I'm  not  a  bad  fellow,  but  I 
swear  I  'm  only  human,  and  if  you  are  leading 
me  on  to  make  a  worse  ass  of  myself  than 
usual,  why,  then,  I  quit." 

She  regarded  him  coolly.  "  It  will  end  when 
I  choose  and  where  I  choose.  It  is  my  own 
affair,  Paul,  and  if  you  feel  cowardly  qualms, 
go  home  like  a  good  boy  to  your  mamma  and 
tell  her  what  a  naughty  woman  I  am." 

He  sobered  at  once  and  reaching  across  the 
narrow  dining-table  took  her  wrist  in  both  of 
his  hands  and  forced  her  to  listen. 
126 


AN   IBSEN   GIRL 

"  You  disdainful  woman  !  I  '11  not  be  mastered 
by  you  any  longer  — 

"  That  means,"  interrupted  Ellenora  coolly, 
"  do  as  you  wish,  and  not  as  I  please." 

Paul,  his  vanity  wounded,  asked  the  waiter 
for  his  reckoning.  His  patience  was  worn 
away. 

"  Paul,  don't  be  silly,"  she  cried,  her  eyes 
sparkling.  "  Now  order  a  carriage  and  we  '11 
take  a  ride  in  the  park  and  talk  the  matter  over. 
I  'm  afraid  the  fool's  fever  is  in  your  blood ;  the 
open  air  may  do  it  good.  Oh !  the  eternal 
nonsense  of  youth.  Call  a  carriage,  Paul !  — 
April  Paul!".  .  . 

Ill 

Life  in  Philadelphia  runs  on  oiled  wheels. 
After  the  huge  clatter  of  New  York,  there  is 
something  mellow  and  human  about  the  drowsy 
hum  of  Chestnut  Street,  the  genteel  reaches  of 
Walnut,  and  the  neat  frontage  of  Spruce  Street. 
Ellenora,  so  quick  to  notice  her  surroundings, 
was  at  first  bored,  then  amused,  at  last  lulled  by 
the  intimate  life  of  her  new  home.  She  had 
never  been  abroad,  but  declared  that  London, 
out-of-the-way  London,  must  be  something  like 
this.  The  fine,  disdainful  air  of  Locust  Street, 
the  curiously  constrained  attitude  of  the  brick 
houses  on  the  side  streets  —  as  if  deferentially 
listening  to  the  back-view  remarks  of  their 
127 


MELOMANIACS 

statelier  neighbors,  the  brown-stone  fronts  —  all 
these  things  she  amused  herself  telling  Paul, 
playfully  begging  him  not  to  confront  her 
with  the  oft-quoted  pathetic  fallacy  of  Ruskin. 
Had  n't  Dickens,  she  asked,  discerned  human 
expression  in  door-knockers,  and  on  the  faces 
of  lean,  lonely,  twilight-haunted  warehouses? 

She  was  gay  for  the  first  time  in  her  restless 
dissatisfied  life.  By  some  strange  alchemy  she 
and  Paul  were  able  to  precipitate  and  blend  the 
sum  total  of  their  content,  and  the  summer  was 
passed  in  peace.  At  first  they  went  to  a  hotel, 
but  fearing  the  publicity,  rented  under  an  as- 
sumed name  a  suite  in  the  second  storey  of 
a  pretty  little  house  near  South  Rittenhouse 
Square.  Here  in  the  cheerful  morning-room 
Ellenora  wrote,  and  Paul  smoked  or  trifled  at  the 
keyboard.  They  were  perfectly  self-possessed 
as  to  the  situation.  When  tired  of  the  bond  it 
should  be  severed.  This  young  woman  and  this 
young  man  had  no  illusion  about  love  —  the 
word  did  not  enter  into  their  life  scheme. 
Theirs  was  a  pact  which  depended  for  continu- 
ance entirely  upon  its  agreeable  quality.  And 
there  was  nothing  cynical  in  all  this ;  rather  the 
ready  acceptance  of  the  tie's  fallibility  mingled 
with  a  little  curiosity  how  the  affair  would  turn 
out. 

It  was  not  yet  November  when  Paul  stopped 
in  the  middle  of  a  Chopin  mazurka : 

"  Ellenora,  have  you  heard  from  Vibert?  " 
128 


AN   IBSEN   GIRL 

She  looked  up  from  the  writing-desk. 

"  How  could  I  ?  He  does  n't  know  where  we 
are." 

"  And  I  fancy  he  does  n't  care."  Paul  whis- 
tled a  lively  lilt.  His  manner  seemed  offensive. 
She  flushed  and  scowled.  He  moved  about  the 
room  still  whistling  and  made  much  noise. 
Ellenora  regarded  him  intently. 

"  Getting  bored,  Paul  ?  Better  go  to  New 
York  and  your  club,"  she  amiably  suggested. 

"  If  you  don't  care,"  and  straightway  he  be- 
gan making  preparations  for  the  journey.  In  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  he  was  ready,  and  with  joy 
upon  his  handsome  face  kissed  Ellenora  fer- 
vently and  went  away  to  the  Broad  Street  sta- 
tion. Then  she  did  something  surprising.  She 
threw  herself  upon  a  couch  and  wept  until  she 
was  hysterical. 

"  I  'm  a  nice  sort  of  a  fool,  after  all,"  she  re- 
flected, as  she  wiped  her  face  with  a  cool  hand- 
kerchief and  proceeded  to  let  her  hair  down  for 
a  good,  comfortable  brushing.  "  I  'm  a  fool,  a 
fool,  to  cry  about  this  vain,  selfish  fellow.  Paul 
has  no  heart.  Poor  little  Arthur !  If  he  had 
been  more  of  a  man,  less  of  a  conceited  boy. 
Yet  conceit  may  fetch  him  through,  after  all. 
Dear  me,  I  wonder  what  the  poor  boy  did  when 
he  got  the  news." 

Ellenora  laughed  riotously.  The  silliness  of 
the  situation  burned  her  sense  of  the  incon- 
gruous. There  she  stood  opposite  the  mirror 
9  129 


MELOMANIACS 

with  her  tears  hardly  dry,  and  yet  she  was  think- 
ing of  the  man  she  had  deserted  !  It  was  ab- 
surd after  all,  this  hurly-burly  of  men  and  women. 
Then  she  began  to  wonder  when  Paul  would 
return.  The  day  seemed  very  long;  in  the 
evening  she  walked  in  Rittenhouse  Square  and 
watched  Trinity  Church  until  its  brown  facade 
faded  in  the  dusk.  She  expected  Paul  back  at 
midnight,  and  sat  up  reading.  She  did  n't  love 
him,  she  told  herself,  but  felt  lonely  and  wished 
he  would  come.  To  be  sure,  she  recalled  with 
her  morbidly  keen  memory  that  Howells  had 
said  :  "  There  is  no  happy  life  for  woman  —  the 
advantage  that  the  world  offers  her  is  her  choice 
in  self-sacrifice."  At  two  hours  past  the  usual 
time,  she  went  to  bed  and  slept  uneasily  until 
dawn,  when  she  reached  out  her  hand  and  awoke 
with  a  start.  .  .  . 

The  next  night  he  came  back  slightly  the 
worse  for  a  pleasant  time.  He  was  too  tired  to 
answer  questions.  In  the  morning  he  told  her 
that  Vibert  announced  a  concert  in  Carnegie 
Hall,  the  programme  made  up  of  his  own  com- 
positions. 

"His  own  compositions?"  Ellenora  indig- 
nantly queried.  "  He  has  nothing  but  the  piano 
concerto,  an  overture  he  wrote  in  Germany,  and 
some  songs."  She  was  very  much  disturbed. 
Paul  noticed  it  and  teased  her. 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  has ;  read  this :  " 

"  Mr.  Arthur  Vibert,  a  talented  young  com- 


AN    IBSEN   GIRL 

poser,  pupil  of  Saint-Saens  and  Brahms,  will 
give  an  instrumental  concert  at  Carnegie  Hall, 
November  loth,  the  programme  of  which  will  be 
devoted  entirely  to  his  own  compositions,  Mr. 
Vibert,  who  is  an  excellent  pianist,  will  play  his 
new  piano  concerto;  a  group  of  his  charming 
songs  will  be  heard ;  an  overture,  one  of  his  first 
works,  and  a  new  symphonic  poem  will  com- 
prise this  unusually  interesting  musical  scheme. 
Mr.  Vibert  will  have  the  valuable  assistance  of 
Herr  Anton  Seidl  and  his  famous  orchestra." 

"  I  will  go  to  New  York  and  hear  that  sym- 
phonic poem."  She  spoke  in  Her  most  aggres- 
sive manner. 

"Well,  why  not?"  replied  Paul  flippantly. 
"  Only  you  will  see  a  lot  of  people  you  know, 
and  would  that  be  pleasant?  " 

"You  needn't  go  to  the  concert,  you  can 
meet  me  afterward,  and  we  '11  go  home  together." 

Paul  yawned,  and  went  out  for  his  afternoon 
stroll.  .  .  .  Ellenora  passed  the  intervening  days 
in  a  flame  of  expectancy.  She  conjectured  all 
sorts  of  reasons  for  the  concert.  Why  should 
Arthur  give  it  so  early  in  the  season?  Where 
did  he  get  the  money  for  the  orchestra?  Per- 
haps that  old,  stupid,  busybody,  portrait-painting 
friend  of  his  had  advanced  it.  But  when  did  he 
compose  the  symphonic  poem?  He  had  said 
absolutely  nothing  about  it  to  her ;  and  she  was 
surprised,  irritated,  a  little  proud  that  he  had 
finished  something  of  symphonic  proportions. 


MELOMANIACS 

She  knew  Arthur  too  well  to  suppose  that  he 
would  offer  a  metropolitan  audience  scamped 
workmanship.  Anyhow,  she  would  go  over  even 
if  she  had  to  face  an  army  of  questioning  friends. 

Vibert!  How  singularly  that  name  looked 
now.  It  was  a  prettier,  more  compact  name 
than  Goddard.  But  of  course  she  was  n't  Mrs. 
Goddard,  she  was  Mrs.  Vibert,  and  would  be 
until  her  husband  saw  fit  to  divorce  her.  Would 
he  do  that  soon?  Then  she  walked  about 
furiously,  drank  tea,  and  groaned  —  she  was 
ennuied  beyond  description.  .  .  . 

Paul  had  the  habit  of  going  to  New  York 
every  other  week,  and  she  raised  no  objection 
as  his  frivolous  manner  was  very  trying  during 
sultry  days ;  when  he  was  away  she  could  aban- 
don herself  to  her  day-dreams  without  fear  of 
interruption.  She  thought  hard,  and  her  strong 
head  often  was  puzzled  by  the  cloud  of  contra- 
dictory witnesses  her  memory  raised.  But  she 
cried  no  more  at  his  absence.  .  .  . 

It  was  quite  gaily  that  she  took  her  seat 
beside  him  in  the  drawing-room  car  of  the  train 
and  impatiently  awaited  the  first  sight  of  the 
salt  meadows  before  Jersey  City  is  reached. 

"  Ah !  the  sea,"  she  cried  enthusiastically, 
and  Paul  smiled  indulgently. 

"You  are  lyrical,  after  all,  Ellenora,"  he 
remarked  in  his  most  critical  manner.  "  Pres- 
ently you  will  be  calling  aloud  '  Thalatta,  Tha- 
latta ! '  like  some  dithyrhambic  Greek  of  old." 
132 


AN   IBSEN    GIRL 

"  Smell  the  ocean,  Paul,"  urged  Ellenora,  who 
looked  years  younger  and  almost  handsome. 
Paul's  comment  was  not  original  but  it  was 
sound :  "  You  are  a  born  New  York  girl  and 
no  mistake."  He  took  her  to  luncheon  when 
they  reached  the  city  and  in  the  afternoon  she 
went  to  a  few  old  familiar  shops,  felt  buoyant, 
and  told  herself  that  she  would  never  consent 
to  live  in  Philadelphia,  as  inelastic  as  brass. 
Alone  she  had  a  hasty  dinner  at  the  hotel  — 
Paul  had  gone  to  dine  with  his  mother  —  and 
noted  in  the  paper  that  there  was  no  postpone- 
ment of  the  Vibert  concert.  The  evening  was 
cool  and  clear,  and  with  a  singular  sensation  of 
lightness  in  her  head  she  went  up  to  the  hall  in 
a  noisy  Broadway  car.  .  .  . 

Her  heart  beat  so  violently  that  she  feared  she 
was  about  to  be  ill ;  intense  excitement  warned 
her  she  must  be  calmer.  All  this  fever  and 
tremor  were  new  to  her,  their  novelty  alarmed 
and  interested  her.  Accustomed  since  child- 
hood to  time  the  very  pulse-beats  of  her  soul,  this 
analytical  woman  was  astounded  when  she  felt 
forces  at  work  within  her  —  forces  that  seemed 
beyond  control  of  her  strong  will.  She  did  not 
dare  to  sit  downstairs,  so  secured  a  seat  in  the 
top  gallery,  meeting  none  of  Arthur's  musical 
acquaintances.  She  eagerly  read  the  pro- 
gramme. How  odd  "  Vibert "  seemed  on  it ! 
She  almost  expected  to  see  her  own  name 
follow  her  husband's.  Arthur  Vibert  and 
133 


MELOMANIACS 

Ellenora,  his  wife,  will  play  his  own  —  their 
own  —  concerto  for  piano  and  orchestra ! 

She  laughed  at  her  conceit,  but  her  laugh 
sounded  so  thin  and  miserable  that  she  was 
frightened.  .  .  . 

Again  she  looked  at  the  programme.  After 
the  concerto  overture  "  Adonai's  " — Vibert  loved 
Shelley  and  Keats  —  came  the  piano  concerto, 
a  group  of  songs  —  the  singer's  name  an  unfa- 
miliar one  —  and  finally  the  symphonic  poem. 
The  symphonic  poem !  What  did  she  see,  or 
were  her  eyes  blurred? 

"  Symphonic  Poem  '  The  Zone  of  the  Shadow'. 
For  explanatory  text  see  the  other  side." 
Sick  and  trembling  she  turned  the  page  and 
read  "  The  Argument  of  this  Symphonic  Poem 
is  by  Ellenora  Vibert." 


THE  ZONE  OF  THE  SHADOW 

To  the  harsh  sacrificial  tones  of  curious  shells 
wrought  from  conch  let  us  worship  our  blazing  parent 
planet !  We  stripe  our  bodies  with  ochre  and  woad, 
lamenting  the  decline  of  our  god  under  the  rim  of 
the  horizon.  O  !  sweet  lost  days  when  we  danced  in 
the  sun  and  drank  his  sudden  rays.  O  !  dread  hour  of 
the  Shadow,  the  Shadow  whose  silent  wings  drape  the 
world  in  gray,  the  Shadow  that  sleeps.  Our  souls 
slink  behind  our  shields;  our  women  and  children 
hide  in  the  caves ;  the  time  is  near,  and  night  is  our 
day.  Softly,  with  feet  of  moss,  the  Shadow  stalks  out 


AN   IBSEN   GIRL 

of  the  South.  The  brilliant  eye  of  the  Sun  is  blotted 
over,  and  with  a  remorseless  mantle  of  mist  the  sil- 
very cusp  of  the  new  moon  is  enfolded.  Follow  fast 
the  stars,  the  little  brethren  of  the  sky ;  and  like  a 
huge  bolster  of  fog  the  Shadow  scales  the  ramparts  of 
the  dawn.  We  are  lost  in  the  blur  of  doom,  and  the 
long  sleep  of  the  missing  months  is  heavy  upon  our 
eyelids.  We  rail  not  at  the  coward  Sun-God  who 
fled  fearing  the  Shadow,  but  creep  noiselessly  to  the 
caves.  Our  shields  are  cast  aside,  unloosed  are  our 
stone  hatchets,  and  the  fire  lags  low  on  the  hearth. 
Without,  the  Shadow  has  swallowed  the  earth;  the 
cry  of  our  hounds  stilled  as  by  the  hand  of  snow. 
The  Shadow  rolls  into  our  caves;  our  brain  is 
benumbed  by  its  caresses;  it  closes  the  porches  of 
the  ear,  and  gently  strikes  down  our  warring  members. 
Supine,  routed  we  rest;  and  above  all,  above  the 
universe,  is  the  silence  of  the  Shadow. 

"  Arthur  has  had  his  revenge,"  she  murmured, 
and  of  a  sudden  went  sick;  the  house  was 
black  about  her  as  she  almost  swooned.  .  .  . 
The  old  pride  kept  her  up,  and  she  looked 
about  the  thinly  filled  galleries;  the  concert 
commenced ;  she  listened  indifferently  to  the 
overture.  When  Vibert  came  on  the  stage 
and  bowed,  she  noticed  that  he  seemed  rather 
worn  but  he  was  active  and  played  with  more 
power  and  brilliancy  than  she  ever  before  re- 
called. He  was  very  masterful,  and  that  was  a 
new  note  in  his  music.  And  when  the  songs 
came,  he  led  out  a  pretty,  slim  girl,  and  with 
'35 


evident  satisfaction  accompanied  her  at  the 
piano.  The  three  songs  were  charming.  She 
remembered  them.  But  who  was  this  soprano  ? 
Arthur  was  evidently  interested  in  her ;  the  or- 
chestra watched  the  pair  sympathetically. 

So  the  elopement  had  not  killed  him  !  Indeed 
he  seemed  to  have  thriven  artistically  since  her 
desertion  !  Ellenora  sat  in  the  black  gulf  called 
despair,  devoured  by  vain  regrets.  Was  it 
the  man  or  his  music  she  regretted?  At  last 
the  Symphonic  Poem !  The  strong  Gothic 
head  of  Anton  Seidl  was  seen,  and  the  music 
began.  .  .  . 

The  natural  bent  of  Arthur  for  the  mystic, 
the  supernatural,  was  understood  by  his  wife. 
Here  was  frosty  music,  dazzling  music,  in  which 
the  spangled  North,  with  its  iridescent  auroras, 
its  snow-driven  soundless  seas  and  its  arctic  cold, 
were  imagined  by  this  woman.  She  quickly 
discerned  the  Sun  theme  and  the  theme  of  the 
Shadow,  and  alternately  blushed  and  wept  at 
the  wonderfully  sympathetic  tonal  transposition 
of  her  idea.  That  this  slight  thing  should  have 
trapped  his  fantasy  surprised  her.  After  she 
had  written  it,  it  had  seemed  remote,  all  too 
white,  a  "  Symphonic  en  Blanc  Majeur  "  —  as 
Theophile  Gautier  would  have  called  it  —  be- 
sides devoid  of  human  interest.  But  Arthur 
had  interwoven  a  human  strand  of  melody,  a 
scarlet  skein  of  emotion,  primal  withal,  yet  an 
attempt  to  catch  the  under  emotions  of  the  ice- 


AN   IBSEN   GIRL 

bound  Esquimaux  surprised  in  their  zone  of 
silence  by  the  sleep  of  the  Shadow,  the  long 
night  of  their  dreary  winter.  And  the  composer 
had  succeeded  surprisingly  well.  What  boreal 
epic  had  he  read  into  Ellenora's  little  prose 
poem,  the  only  thing  of  hers  that  he  had  ever 
pretended  to  admire  !  She  was  amazed,  stunned. 
She  wondered  how  all  this  emotional  richness 
could  have  been  tapped.  Had  she  left  him  too 
soon,  or  had  her  departure  developed  some 
richer  artistic  vein?  She  tortured  her  brain 
and  heart.  After  a  big  tonal  climax  followed 
by  the  lugubrious  monologue  of  a  bassoon  the 
work  closed. 

There  was  much  applause,  and  she  saw  her 
husband  come  out  again  and  again  bowing. 
Finally  he  appeared  with  the  young  singer. 
Ellenora  left  the  hall  and  feebly  felt  her  way  to 
the  street.  As  she  expected,  Paul  was  not  in 
sight,  so  she  called  a  carriage,  and  getting  into 
it  she  saw  Arthur  drive  by  with  his  pretty 
soprano. 

IV 

How  she  reached  the  train  and  Philadelphia 
she  hardly  remembered.  She  was  miserably 
sick  at  soul,  miserably  mortified.  Her  foolish 
air-castles  vanished,  and  in  their  stead  she  saw 
the  brutal  reality.  She  had  deserted  a  young 
genius  for  a  fashionable  dilettante.  In  time 
she  might  have  learned  to  care  for  Arthur  — 


MELOMANIACS 

but  how  was  she  to  know  this?  He  was  so 
backward,  such  a  colorless  companion !  .  .  . 
She  almost  disliked  the  man  who  had  taken 
her  away  from  him ;  yet  six  months  ago  Elle- 
nora  would  have  resented  the  notion  that  a 
mere  man  could  have  led  her.  Besides  there 
was  another  woman  in  the  muddle  now !  .  .  . 
In  her  disgust  she  longed  for  her  own  zone  of 
silence.  In  her  heart  she  called  Ibsen  and 
Nora  Helmer  delusive  guides ;  her  chief  intel- 
lectual staff  had  failed  her  and  she  began  to  see 
Torvold  Helmer's  troubles  in  a  different  light. 
Perhaps  when  Nora  reached  the  street  that  ter- 
rible night,  she  thought  of  her  children  —  per- 
haps Helmer  was  watching  her  from  the  Doll's 
House  window  —  perhaps  —  perhaps  Arthur  — 
then  she  remembered  the  young  singer  and 
bitterness  filled  her  mouth.  .  .  . 

When  Paul  came  back,  twenty-four  hours 
later,  she  turned  a  disagreeable  regard  upon 
him. 

"Why  didn't  you  stay  away  longer?"  she 
demanded  inconsistently. 

"  My  dear  girl,  I  searched  for  you  at  Carnegie 
Hall  that  night,  but  I  suppose  I  must  have  come 
too  late ;  so  yesterday  I  went  yachting  and  had 
a  jolly  time." 

Ellenora  fell  to  reproaching  Paul  violently  for 
his  cruel  neglect.  Did  n't  he  know  that  she  was 
ailing  and  needed  him?  He  answered  mali- 
ciously :  "  I  fancied  that  your  trip  might  upset 
138 


AN    IBSEN    GIRL 

your  nerves.  I  am  really  beginning  to  believe 
you  care  more  for  your  young  composer  than 
you  do  for  me.  Ellenora  Vibert,  sentimental- 
ist! —  what  a  joke." 

He  smiled  at  his  wit.  .  .  . 

"  Leave  me,  leave  me,  and  don't  come  here 
again !  .  .  .  I  have  a  right  to  care  for  any  man 
I  please." 

"  Ah !  Ibsen  encore,"  said  Paul,  tauntingly. 

"  No,  not  Ibsen,"  she  replied  in  a  weak  voice, 
"  only  a  free  woman  —  free  even  to  admire  the 
man  whose  name  I  bear,"  she  added,  her  tem- 
per sinking  to  a  sheer  monotone. 

"  Free?  "  he  sarcastically  echoed.  The  shock 
of  their  voices  filled  the  room.  Paul  angrily 
stared  out  of  the  window  at  the  thin  trees  in 
dusty  Rittenhouse  Square,  wondering  when  the 
woman  would  stop  her  tiresome  reproaches. 
Ellenora's  violent  agitation  affected  her;  and 
the  man,  his  selfish  sensibilities  aroused  by  the 
most  unheroic  sight  in  the  world,  slowly  de- 
scended the  staircase,  grumbling  as  he  put  on 
his  hat.  .  .  . 

Too  cerebral  to  endure  the  philandering  Paul, 
Ellenora  Vibert  is  still  in  Philadelphia.  She  has 
little  hope  that  her  husband  will  ever  make  any 
sign.  .  .  .  After  a  time  her  restless  mind  and 
need  of  money  drove  her  into  journalism.  To- 
day she  successfully  edits  the  Woman's  Page  of 
a  Sunday  newspaper,  and  her  reading  of  an 
'39 


MELOMANIACS 

essay  on  Ibsen's  Heroines  before  the  Twenty- 
first  Century  Club  was  declared  a  positive 
achievement.  Ellenora,  who  dislikes  Nietzsche 
more  than  ever,  calls  herself  Mrs.  Bishop.  Her 
pen  name  is  now  Nora  Helmer. 


TANNHAUSER'S   CHOICE 


"  AND  you  say  they  met  him  this  after- 
noon?" .  .  .  "Yes,  met  him  in  broad  daylight 
coming  from  the  house  of  that  odious  woman." 
"  Well,  I  never  would  have  believed  it ! " 
"  That  accounts  for  his  mysterious  absence 
from  the  clubs  and  drawing-rooms.  Henry 
Tannhauser  is  not  the  style  of  man  to  miss 
London  in  the  season,  unless  there  is  a  big 
attraction  elsewhere."  .  .  .  The  air  was  heavy 
with  flowers,  and  in  the  windows  opening  on  the 
balcony  were  thronged  smartly  dressed  folk; 
it  was  May  and  the  weather  warm.  The  Land- 
grave's musicale  had  been  anticipated  eagerly 
by  all  music-lovers  in  town  ;  Wartburg,  the  large 
house  on  the  hill,  hardly  could  hold  the  in- 
vited. .  .  . 

The  evening  was  young  when  Mrs.  Minne, 
charming  and  a  widow,  stood  with  her  pretty  nun- 
like  face  inclined  to  the  tall,  black  Mr.  Biterolf, 
the  basso  of  the  opera.  She  had  been  sonnetted 
until  her  perfectly  arched  eyebrows  were  fa- 
mous. Her  air  of  well-bred  and  conventual  calm 
never  had  been  known  to  desert  her ;  and  her 
high,  light,  colorless  soprano  had  something  in 
it  of  the  sexless  timbre  of  the  boy  chorister. 
141 


MELOMANIACS 

With  her  blond  hair  pressed  meekly  to  her 
shapely  head  she  was  the  delight  and  despair  of 
poets,  painters  and  musicians,  for  she  turned  an 
impassable  cheek  to  their  pleadings.  Mrs. 
Minne  would  never  remarry;  and  it  was  her 
large  income  that  made  water  the  mouth  of  the 
impecunious  artistic  tribe.  .  .  . 

Just  now  she  seemed  interested  in  Karl  Bit- 
erolf,  but  even  his  vanity  did  not  lead  him  to 
hope.  They  resumed  their  conversation,  while 
about  them  the  crush  became  greater,  and  the 
lights  burned  more  brilliantly.  In  the  whirl  of 
chatter  and  conventional  compliment  stood 
Elizabeth  Landgrave,  the  niece  of  the  host,  re- 
ceiving her  uncle's  guests.  Mrs.  Minne  regarded 
her,  a  sweet,  unpleasant  smile  playing  about  her 
thinly  carved  lips. 

"  Yet  the  men  rave  over  her,  Mr.  Biterolf.  Is 
it  not  so?  What  chance  has  a  passee  woman 
with  such  a  pure,  delicate  slip  of  a  girl?  And 
she  sings  so  well.  I  wonder  if  she  intends  go- 
ing on  the  stage?"  Her  companion  leaned 
over  and  whispered  something. 

"No,  no,  I'll  never  believe  it.  What? 
Henry  Tannhauser  in  love  with  that  girl !  Ja- 
mais,  jamais !  " 

"  But  I  tell  you  it 's  so,  and  her  refusal  sent 
him  after  —  well,  that  other  one."  Biterolf 
looked  wise. 

"  You  mean  to  tell  me  that  he  could  forget 
her  for  an  old  woman?  Stop,  I  know  you  are 
142 


TANNHAUSER'S   CHOICE 

going  to  say  that  the  Holda  is  as  fascinating  as 
Diana  of  Poitiers  and  has  a  trick  of  making 
boys,  young  enough  to  be  her  grandsons,  fall 
madly  in  love  with  her.  I  know  all  that  is  said 
in  her  favor.  No  one  knows  who  she  is,  where 
she  came  from,  or  her  age.  She  's  fifty  if  she 's 
a  day,  and  she  makes  up  in  the  morning."  Mrs. 
Minne  paused  for  breath.  Both  women  moved 
in  the  inner  musical  set  of  fashionable  London 
and  both  captained  rival  camps.  Mrs.  Minne 
was  voted  a  saint  and  Mrs.  Holda  a  sinner  —  a 
fascinating  one  .  .  .  There  was  a  little  feeling 
in  the  widow's  usually  placid  voice  when  she 
again  questioned  Biterolf. 

"  I  always  fancied  that  Eschenbach,  that  man 
with  the  baritone  voice,  son  of  the  rich  brewer 
—  you  know  him  of  course?  —  I  always  fancied 
that  he  was  making  up  to  our  pretty  young  in- 
nocent over  yonder." 

Biterolf  gazed  in  amusement  at  his  compan- 
ion. Her  veiled,  sarcastic  tone  was  not  lost  on 
him ;  he  felt  that  he  had  to  measure  his  words 
with  this  lily-like  creature. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  Wolfram  Eschenbach  ?  Certainly, 
I  know  him.  He  sings  very  well  for  an  amateur. 
I  believe  he  is  to  sing  this  evening.  Let  us  go 
out  on  the  balcony ;  it 's  very  warm."  "  I  in- 
tend remaining  here,  for  I  shall  not  miss  a 
trick  in  the  game  to-night  and  if,  as  you  say, 
that  silly  Tannhauser  was  seen  leaving  the 
Holda's  house  this  afternoon  —  "  "  Yes,  with 


MELOMANIACS 

young  Walter  Vogelweide,  and  they  were  quar- 
relling— "  "Drinking,  I  suppose?"  "No; 
Henry  was  very  much  depressed,  and  when 
Eschenbach  asked  him  where  he  had  been 
so  long  —  "  "  What  a  fool  question  for  a  man 
in  love  with  Elizabeth  Landgrave,"  interposed 
Mrs.  Minne,  tartly.  "  Henry  answered  that  he 
did  n't  know,  and  he  wished  he  were  in  the 
Thames."  "  And  a  good  place  for  him,  say  I." 
The  lady  put  up  her  lorgnon  and  bowed  am- 
iably to  Miss  Landgrave,  who  was  talking 
eagerly  to  her  uncle.  .  .  . 

The  elder  Landgrave  was  as  fond  of  hunting 
as  of  music,  and  sedulously  fostered  the  cultiva- 
tion of  his  niece's  voice.  As  she  stood  beside 
him,  her  slender  figure  was  almost  as  tall  as  his. 
Her  eyes  were  large  in  the  cup  and  they  went 
violet  in  the  sunlight;  at  night  they  seemed 
lustrously  black.  She  was  in  virginal  white 
this  evening,  and  her  delicately  modelled  head 
was  turned  toward  the  door.  Her  uncle  spoke 
slowly  to  her. 

"  He  promised  to  come."  Elizabeth  flushed. 
"  Whether  he  does  or  not,  I  shall  sing ;  besides, 
his  rudeness  is  unbearable.  Uncle,  dear,  what 
can  I  say  to  a  man  who  goes  away  for  a  month 
without  vouchsafing  me  a  word  of  excuse  ?  " 

Her  uncle  coughed  insinuatingly  in  his  beard. 
He  was  a  widower. 

"  Had  n't  we  better  begin,  uncle  ?  Go  out  on 
the  balcony  and  stop  that  noisy  gypsy  band. 


TANNHAUSER'S   CHOICE 

I  hate  Hungarian  music."  .  .  .  She  carried 
herself  with  dignity,  and  Mr.  Landgrave  ad- 
mired the  pretty  curves  of  her  face  and  wondered 
what  would  happen  when  her  careless  lover 
arrived.  Soon  the  crowd  drifted  in  from  the 
balcony  and  the  great  music-room,  its  solemn 
oak  walls  and  ceilings  blazing  with  light,  was 
jammed.  Near  the  concert-grand  gathered  a 
group  of  music  makers,  in  which  Wolfram 
Eschenbach's  golden  beard  and  melancholy 
eyes  were  at  once  singled  out  by  sentimental 
damsels.  He  had  long  been  the  by-word  of 
match-making  mammas  because  of  his  devotion 
to  a  hopeless  cause.  Elizabeth  Landgrave  ad- 
mired his  good  qualities,  but  her  heart  was  held 
by  that  rake,  vaurien  and  man  about  town, 
dashing  Harry  Tannhauser;  and  as  Wolfram 
bent  over  Miss  Landgrave  her  uncle  could  not 
help  regretting  that  girls  were  so  obstinate. 

A  crashing  of  chords  announced  that  the 
hour  had  arrived.  After  the  "  Tannhauser " 
overture,  Elizabeth  Landgrave  arose  to  sing. 
Instantly  there  was  a  stillness.  She  looked  very 
fair  in  her  clinging  gown,  and  as  her  powerful, 
well  modulated  soprano  uttered  the  invocation 
to  the  Wartburg  "  Dich,  theure  Halle,  griiss 
ich  wieder,"  the  thrill  of  excitement  was  in- 
tensified by  the  appearance  of  Henry  Tann- 
hauser in  the  doorway  at  the  lower  end  of 
the  room.  If  Elizabeth  saw  him  her  voice 
did  not  reveal  emotion,  and  she  gave,  with 
10  MS 


MELOMANIACS 

rhetorical  emphasis,  "  Froh  griiss  ich  dich, 
geliebter  Raum." 

"  He  looks  pretty  well  knocked  out,  does  n't 
he?"  whispered  Biterolf  to  Mrs.  Minne.  She 
curled  her  lip.  She  had  long  set  her  heart  on 
Tannhauser,  but  since  he  preferred  to  sing  the 
praises  of  Mrs.  Holda,  she  slaked  her  feelings 
by  cutting  up  his  character  in  slices  and  serving 
them  to  her  friends  with  a  saintly  smile. 

"  Poor  old  Harry,"  went  on  Biterolf  in  his 
clumsy  fashion.  "Your  poor  old  Harry  had 
better  keep  away  from  his  Venus,"  snapped  the 
other ;  "  he  looks  as  if  he  'd  been  going  the 
pace  too  fast."  Every  one  looked  curiously  at 
the  popular  tenor.  He  stood  the  inspection 
very  well,  though  his  clean-shaven  face  was 
slightly  haggard,  his  eyes  sunken  and  bloodshot. 
But  he  was  such  good  style,  as  the  women 
remarked,  and  his  bearing,  as  ever,  gallant. 

Elizabeth  ended  with  "  Sei  mir  gegriisst,"  and 
there  was  a  volley  of  handclapping.  Tannhauser 
made  his  way  to  the  piano.  His  attitude  was 
anything  but  penitent;  the  girl  did  not  stir  a 
muscle.  He  shook  hands.  Then  he  compli- 
mented her  singing.  She  bowed  her  head  stiffly. 
Tannhauser  smiled  ironically. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  do  the  conventional 
operatic  thing,"  he  murmured  —  "  cry  aloud, 
'  Let  me  kneel  forever  here.'  "  She  regarded  him 
coldly.  "  You  might  find  it  rather  embarrassing 
before  this  crowd.  Do  you  ever  sing  any 
146 


TANNHAUSER'S   CHOICE 

more?"  He  was  slightly  confused.  "Let  us 
sing  the  duo  in  the  second  act;  you  know 
it,"  she  curtly  said,  "  and  stop  the  mob's  gap- 
ing. Mrs.  Minne  over  there  is  straining  her 
eyes  out."  "  She  cannot  say  that  I  ever  sang 
her  praises,"  laughed  Tannhauser,  and  as  he 
faced  the  audience  with  Elizabeth  there  was 
a  hum  which  modulated  gradually  into  noisy 
applause. 

The  pair  began  "  Gepriesen  sei  die  Stunde, 
gepriesen  sei  die  Macht,"  and  Mr.  Landgrave 
looked  on  gloomily  as  the  voices  melted  in 
lyric  ecstasy.  Henry's  voice  was  heroic,  like 
himself,  and  his  friend  Wolfram  felt  a  glow 
when  its  thrilling  top  tones  rang  out  so  pure, 
so  clear.  What  a  voice,  what  a  man !  If  he 
would  only  take  care  of  himself,  he  thought  and 
looked  at  Elizabeth's  spiritual  face  wondering 
if  she  knew — if  she  knew  of  the  other  woman 
who  was  making  Henry  forget  his  better  self! 

The  duo  ceased  and  congratulations  were 
heaped  upon  the  singers.  .  .  . 

"  How  do  you  manage  to  keep  it  up,  old 
man?"  asked  Biterolf  while  Mrs.  Minne  en- 
gaged Elizabeth. 

Tannhauser  smiled.  "You  old  grim  wolf, 
Biterolf,  you  cling  to  the  notion  that  a  singer 
must  lead  the  life  of  an  anchorite  to  preserve 
his  voice.  I  enjoy  life.  I  am  not  a  monk,  but 
a  tenor  —  "  "  Yes,  but  not  a  professional  one  !  " 
"  No ;  therefore  I  'm  happy.  If  I  had  to  sing 


MELOMANIACS 

to  order,  I  'd  jump  into  the  river."  "  That 's 
what  you  said  this  afternoon,"  replied  Biterolf, 
knowingly. 

Henry's  face  grew  dark.  "  You  Ve  said 
nothing,  have  you  ?  That 's  a  good  fellow.  I 
assure  you,  Karl,  I  'm  in  the  very  devil  of  a 
fix.  I  Ve  got  rid  of  Holda,  but  no  one  can 
tell  how  long.  She  's  a  terror."  "  Why  don't 
you  travel?"  "I  have,  I  swear  I  have,  but 
she  has  a  trick  of  finding  where  my  luggage 
goes  and  then  turns  up  at  Pau  or  Paris  as  if 
I  expected  her.  She 's  a  witch !  That 's  what 
she  is." 

"  She  is  Venus,"  said  Biterolf  moodily. 
"Aha!  you've  been  hard  hit,  too?  I  believe 
she  does  come  from  the  Hollow  Hill.  Her 
cavern  must  be  full  of  dead  men's  bones, 
trophies  of  her  conquests.  I  think  I  Ve  es- 
caped this  time."  Tannhauser's  face  grew  ra- 
diant. "  Don't  be  too  sure,  she  may  turn  up 
here  to-night."  "  Good  Lord,  man,  she  's  not 
invited,  I  hope."  "  I  don't  know  why  not  — 
she  goes  with  the  best  people.  Take  a  tip 
from  me,  Harry.  Don't  waste  any  more  time 
with  her  for  Eschenbach  may  cut  you  out. 
He  's  very  fond  of  Elizabeth,  and  you  'd  better 
cut  short  that  duet  over  there  now;  Mrs. 
Minne  is  not  fond  of  you."  "  Nonsense  !  "  said 
Tannhauser,  but  he  lounged  over  toward  the 
two  women  and  his  big  frame  was  noted  by 
all  the  girls  in  the  room. 
148 


TANNHAUSER'S  CHOICE 

Tannhauser  had  a  very  taking  way  with  him. 
His  eyes  were  sky-blue  and  his  hair  old  gold. 
He  was  a  terrific  sportsman  and  when  not  mak- 
ing love  was  singing.  From  his  Teutonic  an- 
cestry he  had  inherited  a  taste  for  music  which 
desultory  study  in  a  German  university  town, 
combined  with  a  musical  ear,  had  improved. 
He  had  been  told  by  managers  that  if  he  would 
work  hard  he  could  make  a  sensation,  but 
Henry  was  lazy  and  Henry  was  rich,  so  he  sang, 
shot  big  game  and  flirted  his  years  away.  Then 
he  met  Mrs.  Holda,  of  Berg  Street,  Piccadilly. 

The  women  were  not  looking  at  each  other 
with  loving  eyes  when  he  drew  near.  Elizabeth 
turned  to  him,  her  face  aglow :  "  Let  us  walk 
a  bit  before  Mr.  Eschenbach  sings."  Her 
manner  was  almost  seductive.  Mrs.  Minne 
sneered  slightly  and  waved  her  fan  condescend- 
ingly at  the  two  as  they  moved  slowly  up  the 
room.  "  There  go  the  biggest  pair  of  fools  in 
all  Christendom,"  she  remarked  to  Biterolf; 
"  why,  she  will  believe  everything  he  tells  her. 
She  would  n't  listen  to  my  advice."  Biterolf 
shook  his  head.  When  Tannhauser  and  Eliza- 
beth returned  both  looked  supremely  happy. 

"  That  woman  has  actually  been  abusing  you, 
Harry."  He  pressed  her  arm  reassuringly. 
Wolfram  Eschenbach  began  to  sing  "  Blick'  ich 
umher  in  diesem  edlen  Kreise,"  and  once  more 
silence  fell  upon  the  bored  crowd.  Sympathy 
was  in  his  tones  and  he  sang  tenderly,  lovingly. 
149 


MELOMANIACS 

Elizabeth  listened  unmoved.  She  now  had  eyes 
for  Tannhauser  only,  and  she  laughed  aloud 
when  he  proposed  to  follow  Wolfram  with  a 
solo. 

"  Do,"  she  said  enthusiastically,  "  it  will  stir 
them  all  up."  Although  this  number  was  not 
down  on  the  program,  Tannhauser  was  wel- 
comed as  he  went  to  the  piano.  Wolfram 
seemed  uneasy  and  once  looked  fixedly  at 
Elizabeth.  Then  he  walked  out  on  the  balcony 
as  if  seeking  some  one,  and  Mrs.  Minne  nudged 
her  stolid  neighbor.  "  Mark  my  words,  there  's 
trouble  brewing,"  she  declared. 

By  this  time  Tannhauser  was  in  his  best  form. 
He  seemed  to  have  regained  all  his  usual  elas- 
ticity, for  Berg  Street,  with  its  depressing  memo- 
ries, had  completely  vanished.  He  expanded 
his  chest  and  sang,  his  victorious  blue  eyes 
fastened  on  Elizabeth.  He  sang  the  song  of 
Venus,  "  Dir,  Gottin  der  Liebe,"  and  all  the  old 
passion  came  into  his  voice;  when  he  uttered 
"  Zieht  in  den  Berg  der  Venus  ein "  he  was 
transported,  his  surroundings  melted  and  once 
more  he  was  gazing  at  the  glorious  woman, 
his  Venus,  his  Holda.  The  audience  was  com- 
pletely shaken  out  of  its  fashionable  immobility, 
and  "  superb,"  "  bravo,"  "  magnificent,"  "  en- 
core," "  bis,"  were  heard  on  all  sides.  Eliza- 
beth alone  remained  mute.  Her  skin  was  the 
pallor  of  ivory,  and  into  her  glance  came  the 
look  of  a  lovely  fawn  run  down  by  the  hounds. 
150 


TANNHAUSER'S  CHOICE 

"  He  'd  better  pack  his  traps  and  make  a 
pilgrimage  to  Rome,"  remarked  Mrs.  Minne 
with  malice  in  her  secular  eyes  as  Tannhauser 
strode  to  the  balcony.  Wolfram,  looking  anx- 
ious, went  to  Elizabeth  and  led  her  to  her  uncle ; 
then  the  supper  signal  sounded  and  the  buzz 
and  struggle  became  tremendous. 

Mrs.  Minne  disappeared.  Ten  minutes  later 
she  was  at  Miss  Landgrave's  side,  and  presently 
the  pair  left  the  table,  slowly  forced  a  passage 
through  the  mob  of  hungry  and  thirsty  humans 
and  reached  the  balcony. 

The  night  was  rich  with  May  odors,  but  the 
place  seemed  deserted.  Plucking  at  the  girl's 
sleeve,  her  companion  pointed  to  a  couple  that 
stood  looking  into  the  garden,  the  arm  of  the 
man  passed  about  the  waist  of  the  woman. 
Even  in  the  starlight  Elizabeth  recognized  the 
exquisite  head  and  turned  to  leave ;  the  woman 
with  her  was  bent  on  seeing  the  game.  In 
sharp  staccato  she  said,  "  What  a  relief  after 
that  hot  supper-room  !  "  and  the  others  turned. 
Elizabeth  did  not  pause  a  moment.  She  went 
to  Tannhauser's  companion  and  said  : 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Holda,  where  have  you  been 
hiding  to-night?  I  fear  you  missed  the  music 
and  I  fear  now  you  will  miss  the  supper ;  do  let 
us  go  in."  .  .  . 

Five  minutes  later  Mrs.  Holda  left  with 
Tannhauser  in  her  brougham,  telling  the  coach- 
man to  drive  to  Berg  Street. 


MELOMANIACS 


II 

The  drawing-room  was  delicious  that  May 
afternoon  —  the  next  after  the  musicale  at 
Landgrave's.  Henry  was  indolently  disposed, 
and  on  a  broad  divan,  heaped  with  Persian 
pillows,  he  stretched  his  big  limbs  like  a  guards- 
man in  a  Ouida  novel.  The  dark  woman  near 
watched  nim  closely,  and  as  he  seemed  inclined 
to  silence  she  did  not  force  the  conversation. 

"Shall  we  drive,  Venus?"  he  nonchalantly 
asked.  "  Just  as  you  please.  We  may  meet 
your  saint  with  the  insipid  eyes  in  the  park.'* 
"  Good  heavens !  "  he  testily  answered,  "  why 
do  you  forever  drag  in  that  girl's  name?  She's 
nothing  to  me."  Mrs.  Holda  went  to  the  win- 
dow and  he  lazily  noticed  her  perfect  figure,  her 
raven  hair  and  black  eyes.  She  was  a  stunner 
after  all,  and  did  n't  look  a  day  over  twenty- 
eight.  How  did  she  manage  to  preserve  the 
illusion  of  youth?  She  turned  to  him,  and  he 
saw  the  contour  of  a  face  Oriental,  with  eyes 
that  allured  and  a  mouth  that  invited.  A  desir- 
able but  dangerous  woman,  and  he  fell  to  think- 
ing of  the  other,  of  her  air  of  girlhood,  her 
innocence  of  poise,  her  calm  of  breeding  that 
nothing  disturbed.  Like  a  good  pose  in  the 
saddle,  nothing  could  ever  unseat  the  equanimity 
of  Elizabeth.  Mrs.  Holda  grew  distasteful  for 
the  moment  and  her  voice  sounded  metallic. 


TANNHAUSER'S  CHOICE 

"  When  you  cease  your  perverse  mooning, 
Harry  Tannhauser,  when  you  make  up  your 
mind  once  and  for  all  which  woman  you  intend 
to  choose,  when  you  decide  between  Elizabeth 
Landgrave  and  Venus  Holda,  I  shall  be  most 
happy.  As  it  is  now  I  am  "  —  Just  then  two 
cards  were  handed  her  by  a  footman,  and  after 
looking  at  them  she  laughed  a  mellow  laugh. 
Tannhauser  sat  up  and  asked  her  the  news. 

"  I  laugh  because  the  situation  is  so  funny," 
she  said ;  "  here  are  your  two  friends  come  to 
visit  you  and  perhaps  attempt  your  rescue  from 
the  Venusberg.  Oh  !  for  a  Wagner  now !  What 
appropriate  music  he  could  set  to  this  situation." 
She  gave  him  the  cards,  and  to  his  consterna- 
tion he  read  the  names  of  Elizabeth  Landgrave 
and  Wolfram  Eschenbach.  He  started  up  in 
savage  humor  and  was  for  going  to  the  recep- 
tion room.  Quite  calmly  Mrs.  Holda  bade  him 
stay  where  he  was. 

"They  did  not  ask  for  you,  Harry,  dear; 
stay  here  and  be  a  good  boy,  and  I  '11  tell  you  all 
about  it  when  they  Ve  gone."  Her  laughter  was 
resilient  as  she  descended  the  staircase,  but  to 
the  young  man  it  seemed  sinister.  He  felt 
that  hope  had  abandoned  him  when  he  en- 
tered the  Berg  Street  house,  and  now  Eliza- 
beth's presence,  instead  of  relieving  his  dull 
remorse,  increased  it.  She  was  under  the  same 
roof  with  him,  yet  he  could  not  go  to  her.  .  .  . 

Tannhauser  paced  the  parquetry  almost  hid- 
153 


MELOMANIACS 

den  by  Bokhara  rugs,  trying  to  forget  the  girl. 
Stopping  before  an  elaborate  ebony  and  gold 
lectern,  he  found  a  volume  in  vellum,  opened 
and  in  it  he  read:  "Livre  des  grandes  Mer- 
veilles  d'amour,  escript  en  Latin  et  en  frangoys 
par  Maistre  Antoine  Gaget  1530."  "Has  love 
its  marvels?"  pondered  the  disquieted  young 
man.  Turning  over  the  title-page  he  came 
upon  these  words  in  sweet  old  English: 

"  Then  lamented  he  weeping :  Alas,  most  un- 
happy and  accursed  sinner  that  I  am,  in  that  I 
shall  never  see  the  clemency  and  mercy  of  my 
God.  Now  will  I  go  forth  and  hide  myself 
within  Mount  Horsel,  imploring  my  sweet  lady 
Venus  for  favor  and  loving  mercy,  for  willingly 
would  I  be  forever  condemned  to  hell  for  her 
love.  Here  endeth  all  my  deeds  of  arms  and 
my  sweet  singing.  Alas,  that  my  lady's  face 
and  her  eyes  were  too  beautiful,  and  that  in  an 
unfortunate  moment  I  saw  them.  Then  went 
he  forth  sighing  and  returned  to  her,  and  dwelt 
sadly  in  the  presence  of  his  lady,  filled  with 
a  surpassing  love.  And  afterwards  it  came  to 
pass  that  one  day  the  pope  saw  many  red  and 
white  flowers  and  leaf-buds  spring  forth  from 
his  baton,  and  all  without  bloomed  anew.  So 
that  he  feared  greatly,  and  being  much  moved 
thereby  was  filled  with  great  pity  for  the  cheva- 
lier who  had  gone  forth  hopeless  like  unto  a  man 
forever  damned  and  miserable.  And  straight- 
way sent  he  numberless  messengers  to  him  to 
'54 


TANNHAUSER'S   CHOICE 

bring  him  back,  saying  that  he  should  receive 
grace  and  absolution  from  God,  for  this  his 
great  sin  of  love.  But  never  more  was  he  seen ; 
for  the  poor  chevalier  dwelt  forever  near  unto 
Venus,  that  most  high  and  mighty  Goddess,  in 
the  bosom  of  the  amorous  mountain."  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Holda  was  delightful  as  she  welcomed 
her  visitors.  "  The  drawing-room  was  not 
empty,"  she  said ;  "  a  friend,  an  old  friend,  a  bit 
of  a  bore,  you  know;  "  and  they  must  just  -stay 
downstairs,  it  was  more  cozy,  more  intimate. 
Elizabeth,  whose  face  was  quite  rosy  from  walk- 
ing, studied  the  woman  with  the  Egyptian  pro- 
file and  glorious  hair,  and  wondered  if  she  ever 
told  the  truth.  Wolfram  alone  seemed  uneasy. 
He  could  not  get  into  the  swing  of  conversa- 
tion ;  he  was  in  his  watchful  mood.  He  looked 
at  the  portieres  as  if  every  moment  he  expected 
some  one  to  appear.  The  musicale  was  dis- 
cussed and  Miss  Landgrave's  singing  praised. 
Wolfram  rather  awkwardly  attempted  to  intro- 
duce Tannhauser's  name,  but  was  snubbed  by 
Elizabeth. 

"  Now,  my  dear  Mrs.  Holda,  I  Ve  come  to 
tell  you  some  news;  promise  me,  I  beg  of 
you,  promise  me  not  to  divulge  it.  We  are 
engaged,  Wolfram  and  I,  and  you  being  such  an 
old  friend  I  came  to  you  first."  The  girl's  pure 
face  was  the  picture  of  nubile  candor,  and  her 
eyes  met  fairly  the  shock  of  the  other's  quick 
glance. 


MELOMANIACS 

"  How  lovely,  how  perfectly  lovely  it  all  is, 
and  how  I  appreciate  your  confidence,"  sang 
Mrs.  Holda,  in  purring  accents.  "  How  glad 
Henry  Tannhauser  will  be  to  hear  that  his  two 
best  friends  are  to  be  married.  I  must  tell  — 
tell  him  this  afternoon." 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Elizabeth,  lightly,  "  but  your 
promise,  have  you  forgotten  it?"  The  other 
laughed  in  her  face. 

"  We  go  to  Rome,  to  make  what  dear  Mrs. 
Minne  calls  the  pilgrimage,"  declared  the  girl 
unflinchingly. 

"  Then  I  hope  the  Wagner  miracle  will  take 
place  again,"  mockingly  answered  Mrs.  Holda, 
and  after  a  few  more  sentences  the  visitors  went 
away.  Venus  burst  into  her  drawing-room  hold- 
ing her  sides,  almost  choking.  "  Harry,  Harry, 
Harry  Tannhauser,  I  shall  die.  They're  en- 
gaged to  be  married.  They  came  to  tell  me, 
to  tell  me,  knowing  that  you  were  upstairs.  Oh, 
that  deceitful  virgin  with  her  sly  airs !  I  under- 
stood her.  She  fancied  that  she  would  put  me 
out  of  countenance.  She  and  that  sheep  of  a 
brewer's  son,  Eschenbach.  They  're  engaged, 
I  tell  you,  and  going  to  Rome  on  their  wedding 
trip  —  their  pilgrimage  she  called  it.  Oh,  these 
affected  Wagnerites  !  You  had  better  go,  too, 
Mr.  Tannhauser;  perhaps  the  miracle  might 
be  renewed  and  your  staff  of  faith  grow  green 
with  the  leaves  of  repentance.  Oh,  Harry,  what 
a  lark  it  all  is !  " 

156 


TANNHAUSER'S   CHOICE 

He  sat  on  the  couch  and  stared  at  her  as  she 
rolled  about  on  a  divan,  gripped  by  malicious 
laughter.  .  .  .  Engaged !  Elizabeth  Landgrave 
engaged  to  be  married  !  And  a  few  hours  ago 
she  told  him  she  loved  him,  could  never  love 
another  —  and  now!  What  had  happened  in 
such  a  brief  time  to  make  her  change  her  mind  ? 
Engaged  to  Wolfram  Eschenbach,  dear,  old  stu- 
pid Wolfram,  who  had  loved  her  with  a  dog's 
love  for  years,  even  when  she  flouted  him. 
Wolfram,  his  best  friend,  slow  Wolfram,  with 
his  poetizing,  his  fondness  for  German  singing 
societies,  his  songs  to  evening  stars;  Eschen- 
bach, the  brewer's  son,  to  cut  him  out,  cut 
out  brilliant  Harry  Tannhauser  !  It  was  incred- 
ible, it  was  monstrous !  .  .  .  He  slowly  went  to 
the  window.  The  street  was  empty,  and  only 
his  desperate  thoughts  made  noise  as  they 
clattered  through  his  hollow  head.  Her  voice 
roused  him.  "  You  can  take  the  pitcher  too 
often  to  the  well,  Harry  dear,  and  you  drove 
once  too  often  to  Berg  Street.  Elizabeth,  sen- 
sible girl,  instead  of  dying,  takes  the  best  man 
she  could  possibly  find;  a  better  man  than 
you,  Harry,  and  she  could  n't  resist  letting  me 
know  it.  So,  silly  old  boy,  better  give  up  your 
Wartburg  ambitions,  your  pilgrimage  to  Rome, 
and  stay  here  in  the  Venusberg.  I  know  I  'm 
old,  but,  after  all,  am  I  not  your  Venus?"  In 
the  soft  light  of  an  early  evening  in  May  the  face 
of  Mrs.  Holda  seemed  impossibly  charming.  .  .  . 
J57 


THE    RED-HEADED    PIANO 
PLAYER 

THE  two  young  men  left  the  trolley  car  that 
carried  them  from  Bath  Beach  to  the  West  End 
of  Coney  Island,  and  walked  slowly  up  the  Broad 
Avenue  of  Confusing  Noises,  smoked  and  gazed 
about  them  with  the  independent  air  that  notes 
among  a  million  the  man  from  New  York.  And 
as  they  walked  they  talked  in  crisp  sentences, 
laughing  at  the  seller  of  opulent  Frankfurter 
sausages  and  nodding  pleasantly  to  the  lovely 
ladies  in  short,  spangled  skirts,  who,  with  beck- 
oning glances,  sought  their  eyes.  The  air  rever- 
berated with  an  August  evening's  heat  and 
seemed  sweating.  Its  odor  modulated  from  sea- 
brine  to  Barren  Island,  and  the  wind  hummed. 
The  clatter  was  striking;  ardent  whistling  of 
peanut  steam-roasters,  vicious  brass  bands,  hid- 
eous harps,  wheezing  organs,  hoarse  shoutings 
and  the  patient,  monotonous  cry  of  the  fakirs 
and  photographers  were  all  blended  in  a  dense, 
huge  symphony ;  while  the  mouse-colored  dust 
churned  by  the  wheels  of  blackguard  beach- 
wagons  blurred  a  hard,  blue  sky  from  which 
pricked  a  soft,  hanging  star.  An  operatic  sun 
'58 


THE   RED-HEADED   PIANO  PLAYER 

had  just  set  with  all  the  majestic  tranquillity  of 
a  fiery  hen ;  and  the  two  friends  felt  laconically 
gay.  "  Let 's  eat  here,"  suggested  the  red-haired 
one. 

"  Not  on  your  life,"  answered  the  other,  a 
stout,  cynical  blond ;  "  you  get  nothing  but 
sauerkraut  that  is  n't  sour  and  dog-meat  sausage. 
I  'm  for  a  good  square  meal  at  Manhattan  or 
Sheepshead  Bay." 

"  Yes,  but  Billy,  there 's  more  fun  here,  and 
heavens  knows  I  'm  dead  tired."  The  young 
fellow's  accents  were  those  of  an  irritable,  hungry 
human  animal,  and  his  big  chum  gave  in.  ... 

They  searched  the  sandy  street  for  a  comfort- 
able beer  place,  and  after  passing  dime-museums, 
unearthly  looking  dives,  amateur  breweries,  low 
gin  mills  and  ambitious  establishments,  the  pair 
paused  opposite  a  green,  shy  park  of  grass  and 
dwarf  trees,  and  listened. 

"  Piano  playing,  and  not  bad,"  cried  Billy. 
They  both  hung  over  the  rustic  palings  and 
heard  bits  of  Chopin's  Military  Polonaise,  inter- 
rupted by  laughter  and  the  rattling  of  crockery. 

"  I  'm  for  going  in,  Billy,"  and  they  read  the 
sign  which  announced  a  good  dinner,  with  music, 
for  fifty  cents.  They  followed  the  artificial  lane 
to  a  large  summer  cottage,  about  which  were 
bunched  drooping  willows  and,  finding  all  the 
tables  occupied,  went  inside. 

A  long  room  furnished  for  dining,  gaudy  pic- 
tures on  the  walls,  and  at  one  end  upon  a  raised 
'59 


MELOMANIACS 

platform  a  grand  piano.  The  place  was  full ; 
and  the  tobacco-smoke,  chatter  and  calls  of  the 
waiters  disconcerted  the  two  boys.  Just  then 
the  piano  sounded.  Chopin  again,  and  curious 
to  know  who  possessed  such  a  touch  at  Coney 
Island,  the  friends  found  a  table  to  the  right 
of  the  keyboard  and  sat  down.  As  they  did, 
they  looked  at  the  pianist  and  both  exclaimed : 

"  Paderewski  or  his  ghost !  "  The  fellow  wore 
a  shock  of  lemon-tinted  hair  after  the  manner  of 
the  Polish  virtuoso,  but  his  face  was  shaven 
clean. 

"  Harry,  he  looks  like  a  lost  soul,"  said  Billy, 
who  was  rather  plain  spoken  in  his  judgments. 

"  Let 's  give  him  a  drink,"  whispered  Harry, 
and  he  called  a  waiter.  "Whiskey,"  said  the 
waiter  after  a  question  had  been  put,  and  pres- 
ently the  piano  player  was  bowing  to  them  as 
he  threw  the  liquor  into  his  large  mouth.  Then 
the  Chopin  study  in  C  minor  was  recommenced 
and  half-finished  and  the  two  music  lovers  forgot 
their  dinner.  A  waiter  spoke  to  them  twice; 
the  manager,  seeing  that  music  was  hurting 
trade,  went  to  the  piano  and  coughed.  The 
pianist  instantly  stopped,  and  a  dinner  was  or- 
dered by  Harry.  Billy  looked  around  him  with 
a  trained  eye.  He  noticed  that  the  women  were 
all  sunburned  and  wore  much  glittering  jewelry ; 
the  men  looked  like  countrymen  and  were  timid 
in  the  use  of  the  fork.  When  the  music  began 
they  stopped  eating  and  their  companions  or- 
160 


THE    RED-HEADED    PIANO   PLAYER 

dered  fresh  drinks.  Billy  could  have  sworn  that 
he  saw  one  woman  crying.  But  as  soon  as  the 
music  ceased  conversation  began,  and  the  rattle 
of  dishes  was  deafening. 

"  I  say,  Harry,  this  is  a  queer  go.  There 's 
something  funny  about  this  place  and  this  piano. 
It  upsets  all  my  theories  of  piano  music.  When 
the  piano  begins  here  the  audience  forgets  to 
eat,  and  its  passion  mounts  to  its  ears.  Not  like 
the  West  End  at  all,  is  it  ?"  Harry  was  busy 
with  his  soup.  He  was  sentimental,  and  the 
sight  of  kindred  hair  —  the  hue  beloved  of  Pad- 
erewski  —  roused  his  sympathies. 

"  By  George,  Billy,  that  fellow 's  an  artist. 
Just  look  at  his  expression.  There 's  a  story  in 
him,  and  I  'm  going  to  get  it.  It  may  be  news." 

They  chatted,  and  asked  the  pianist  to  join 
them  in  another  drink.  Whiskey  was  sent  up 
to  the  platform,  and  the  musician  drank  it  at  a 
gulp,  his  right  hand  purling  over  the  figuration 
of  "  Auf  dem  Wasser  zu  Singen."  But  he  took 
no  water.  Then  making  them  a  little  bobbing, 
startled  bow,  he  began  playing.  Again  it  was 
something  of  Chopin.  On  his  lean  features 
there  was  a  look  of  detachment ;  and  the  watch- 
ers were  struck  with  the  interesting  forehead,  the 
cheeks  etched  with  seams  of  suffering,  and  the 
finely  compressed  lips. 

"  I  '11  bet  it 's  some  German  who  has  boozed 
too  much  at  home,  and  his  folks  have  thrown 
him  out,"  hinted  Billy, 
ii  161 


MELOMANIACS 

"  German  ?  That 's  no  German,  I  swear. 
It 's  Hungarian,  Bohemian  or  Pole.  Besides,  he 
drinks  whiskey." 

"  Yes,  drinks  too  much,  but  it  has  n't  hurt  his 
playing  —  yet :  just  listen  to  the  beggar  play 
that  prelude." 

The  B  flat  minor  Prelude,  with  its  dark,  rich, 
rushing  cascade  of  scales,  its  grim  iteration  and 
ceaseless  questioning,  spun  through  the  room, 
and  again  came  the  curious  silence.  Even  the 
Oberkellner  listened,  his  mouth  ajar.  The  waiters 
paused  midway  in  their  desperate  gaming  with 
victuals,  and  for  a  moment  the  place  was  wholly 
given  over  to  music.  The  mounting  unison 
passage  and  the  smashing  chords  at  the  close 
awakened  the  diners  from  the  trance  into  which 
they  had  been  thrown  by  the  magnetic  fluid  at 
the  tips  of  the  pianist's  ringers ;  the  bustle  began, 
Harry  and  Billy  ordered  more  beer  and  drew 
deep  breaths. 

"  He 's  a  wonder,  that 's  all  I  know,  and  I  'm 
going  to  grab  him.  What  technique,  what 
tone,  what  a  touch !  "  cried  Harry,  who  had 
been  assistant  music  critic  on  an  afternoon 
paper. 

A  card,with  a  pencilled  invitation,  was  sent  to 
the  pianist,  and  the  place  being  quite  dark  the 
electric  lights  began  hoarsely  whistling  in  a 
canary  colored  haze.  The  musician  came 
over  to  the  table  and,  bowing  very  low,  took 
a  seat. 

162 


THE   RED-HEADED   PIANO    PLAYER 

"  You  will  excuse  me,"  he  said,  "  if  I  do  not 
cat.  I  have  trouble  with  my  heart,  and  I  drink 
whiskey.  Yes,  I  will  be  happy  to  join  you  in 
another  glass  of  very  bad  whiskey.  No,  I  am  not 
a  Pole ;  I  am  English,  and  not  a  nobleman.  I 
look  like  Paderewski,  but  can't  play  nearly  as 
well.  Here  is  my  card."  The  name  was  com- 
monplace, Wilkins,  but  was  prefixed  by  the 
more  unusual  Feodor. 

"  You  Ve  some  Russian  in  you  after  all  ? " 
questioned  Billy. 

"  Perhaps.  Feodor  is  certainly  Russian.  I 
often  play  Tscha'ikowsky.  I  know  that  you  won- 
der why  I  am  in  such  a  place.  I  will  tell  you. 
I  like  human  nature,  and  where  can  you  get 
such  an  opportunity  to  come  into  contact  with 
it  in  the  raw  as  this  place  ?  " 

Billy  winked  at  Harry  and  ordered  more 
drinks.  The  pale  Feodor  Wilkins  drank  with 
the  same  precipitate  gesture,  as  if  eager  with 
thirst.  He  spoke  in  a  refined  manner,  and  was 
evidently  an  educated  man. 

"  I  have  no  story,  my  friends.  I  'm  not  a 
genius  in  disguise,  neither  am  I  a  drunkard  — 
one  may  safely  drink  at  the  seaside  —  and  if, 
perhaps,  like  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  I  play  at 
being  an  amateur  emigrant,  I  certainly  do  not 
intend  writing  a  book  of  my  experiences." 

The  newspaper  boys  were  disappointed. 
There  was,  then,  no  lovely  mystery  to  be  un- 
ravelled, no  subterrene  story  excavated,  no 


MELOMANIACS 

romance  at  all,  nothing  but  a  spiritual  looking 
Englishman  with  an  odd  first  name  and  a  gift  of 
piano  playing. 

Mr.  Wilkins  gave  a  little  laugh,  for  he  read 
the  faces  of  his  companions.  As  if  to  add 
another  accent  to  their  disappointment  he 
ordered  a  Swiss  cheese  sandwich,  and  spoke 
harshly  to  the  waiter  for  not  bringing  mustard 
with  it.  Then  he  turned  to  Harry : 

"  You  love  music? " 

"  Crazy  for  it,  but  see  here,  Mr.  —  Mr.  Wilkins, 
why  don't  you  play  in  public?  I  don't  mean 
this  kind  of  a  public,  but  before  a  Philharmonic 
audience  !  This  sort  of  cattle  must  make  you 
sick,  and  for  heaven's  sake,  man,  what  do  they 
pay  you  ? "  Harry's  face  was  big  with  sup- 
pressed questions.  The  pianist  paused  in  his 
munching  of  bread  and  cheese.  His  fine  lumi- 
nous eyes  twinkled :  "  My  dear  boy,  I  have  a 
story  —  a  short  one  —  and  I  fancy  that  it  will  ex- 
plain the  mystery.  I  am  twenty-seven  years  old. 
Yes,  that 's  all,  but  I  've  lived  and  —  loved." 

"  Ah,  a  petticoat !  "  exclaimed  Harry,  trium- 
phantly; "  I  was  sure  of  it." 

"  No,  not  a  petticoat,  but  a  piano  was  the 
cause  of  my  undoing.  Vaulting  ambition  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing.  My  parents  were  easy  in 
circumstances  and  I  was  brought  up  to  be  a 
pianist.  Deliberately  planned  to  be  a  virtuoso. 
I  was  sent  to  Leschetizky,  to  Von  Biilow,  to 
Rubinstein,  to  Liszt.  I  studied  scales  in  Paris 
164 


THE    RED-HEADED   PIANO   PLAYER 

with  Plante,  trills  in  Bologna  with  Martucci, 
octaves  with  Rosenthal ;  in  Vienna  I  met  Joseffy, 
and  with  him  I  studied  double  notes.  Wait 
until  later  and  I  shall  play  for  you  the  Chopin 
Study  in  G  sharp  minor !  I  mastered  twenty- 
two  concertos  and  even  knew  the  parts  for  the 
triangle.  Then  at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  after 
the  best  teachers  in  Europe  had  taught  me 
their  particular  craft  I  returned  to  England,  to 
London,  and  gave  a  concert.  It  was  an  elabo- 
rate affair.  The  best  orchestra,  with  Hans 
Richter,  was  secured  by  my  happy  father,  and 
after  the  third  rehearsal  he  embraced  me,  saying 
that  he  could  go  to  his  grave  a  satisfied  man,  for 
his  son  was  a  piano  artist.  There  must  have 
been  a  strain  of  Slavic  in  the  old  man,  he  loved 
Chopin  and  TschaTkowsky  so.  My  mother  was 
less  demonstrative,  but  she  was  as  truly  delighted 
as  my  father.  Picture  to  yourself  the  transports 
of  these  two  devoted  old  people  !  And  when  I 
left  them  the  night  before  the  concert  I  really 
trembled. 

"  In  my  bedroom  I  faced  the  mirror  and  saw 
my  secret  peering  out  at  me.  I  knew  that  if  I 
failed  it  would  kill  my  parents,  who,  gambler- 
like,  were  staking  their  very  existence  on  my 
success.  As  the  night  wore  white  I  grew  more 
nervous,  and  at  dawn,  not  being  able  to  endure 
the  strain  a  moment  more,  I  crept  out  of  doors 
and  went  to  a  public  house  and  began  drinking 
to  settle  my  nerves." 

165 


MELOMANIACS 

"  I  told  you  it  was  whiskey,"  blurted  out  Billy. 

"  No,  brandy,"  said  Mr.  Wilkins,  looking  into 
his  empty  glass,  "  now  it's  whiskey.  Yes ;  thank 
you  very  much.  Well,  to  proceed. 

"  I  drank  all  day,  but  being  young  I  did  not 
feel  it  particularly.  I  went  home,  ran  my  fin- 
gers over  the  piano,  got  into  a  bath  and  dressed 
for  the  concert.  At  eight  o'clock  the  carriage 
came,  and  at  eight  forty-five,  with  one  more 
drink  in  me,  I  walked  out  on  the  platform  as 
bold  as  you  please,  and  despite  the  size  of  the 
audience,  the  glare  of  the  lights  and  the  air, 
charged  with  human  electricity,  I  felt  rather  at 
ease.  The  orchestra  went  sailing  into  the  long 
tutti  of  the  F  minor  Concerto  of  Chopin,  and 
Richter,  I  could  feel,  was  in  good  spirits.  My 
cue  came;  I  took  it,  struck  out  and  came 
down  the  piano  in  the  introductory  unisons  — 
a  divine  beginning,  isn't  it  ?  —  and  my  tone 
seemed  rich  and  virile.  I  played  the  first 
theme,  and  all  went  well  until  the  next  inter- 
lude for  the  orchestra ;  I  looked  about  me  con- 
fidently, feeling  quite  like  a  virtuoso,  and  soon 
spied  my  parents,  when  suddenly  my  knees  be- 
gan to  tremble,  trembled  so  that  the  damper 
pedal  vibrated.  Then  my  eyes  blurred  and  I 
missed  my  cue  and  felt  Richter's  great  spec- 
tacles burning  into  the  side  of  my  head  like  two 
fierce  suns.  I  scrambled,  got  my  place,  lost  it, 
rambled  and  was  roused  to  my  position  by  the 
short  rapping  of  the  conductor's  stick  on  his 
1 66 


THE   RED-HEADED    PIANO   PLAYER 

desk.     The    band   stopped,  and    Herr  Richter 
spoke  gruffly  to  me : 

" '  Begin  again.' 

"  In  a  sick,  dazed  way  I  put  my  fingers  on  the 
keys,  but  they  were  drunk ;  the  cursed  brandy 
had  just  begun  to  work,  and  a  minute  later,  my 
head  reeling,  I  staggered  through  the  orchestra, 
lurched  against  a  contrabassist,  fell  down  and 
was  shoved  out  of  sight. 

"  I  lay  in  the  artists'  room  perfectly  content, 
and  even  enjoyed  the  pinched  chalky  face  of 
my  father  as  he  stooped  over  me. 

" '  My  God,  the  boy 's  drunk,'  he  cried,  and 
big  Richter  nodded  his  head  quite  philosophi- 
cally, '  Ja,  er  ist  ganz  besoffen/  and  left  us  to  go 
to  the  audience.  I  fell  asleep.  .  .  .  The  next 
evening  I  found,  on  awakening,  a  horrible  head- 
ache and  a  letter  from  my  father.  I  was  turned 
out  of  doors,  disowned,  and  bade  to  go  about 
my  business.  So  here  I  am,  gentlemen,  as  you 
see,  at  your  service,  and  always  thirsty."  .  .  . 

The  friends  were  about  to  put  a  hundred 
questions,  when  a  thin,  acid  female  voice  broke 
in :  "  Benny,  don't  you  think  you  Ve  wasted 
enough  of  the  gentlemen's  time?  You'd  better 
get  to  work.  The  people  are  nearly  all  gone." 
Feodor  Wilkins  started  to  his  feet  and  blushed 
as  an  old,  fat  woman,  wearing  a  Mother  Hub- 
bard  of  gross  pattern,  waddled  toward  the  table. 
The  sad  pianist  with  the  flaming  hair  turned  to 
the  boys: 

167 


MELOMANIACS 

"  My  wife,  Mrs.  Wilkins,  gentlemen  !  "  The 
lady  took  a  seat  at  Billy's  invitation  and  also  a 
small  drink  of  peppermint  and  whiskey.  She 
told  them  that  she  was  tired  out ;  business  had 
been  good,  and  if  Benny  would  only  quit  drink- 
ing and  play  more  popular  music,  why,  she 
would  n't  complain !  Then  she  drank  to  their 
health,  and  Billy  thought  he  saw  the  husband 
make  a  convulsive  movement  in  his  throat.  It 
may  have  been  caused  by  hysterical  mortifica- 
tion— the  woman  was  undeniably  vulgar  —  but 
to  the  practical-minded  Billy  it  was  more  like 
an  envious  involuntary  swallowing  at  the  sight 
of  another's  drinking.  Then  the  pianist  mounted 
his  wooden  throne,  where,  amid  the  dust  and 
tramplings  of  low  conquests  and  in  the  murky 
air,  he  began  to  toll  out  the  bells  of  the  Chopin 
Funeral  March. 

"  Funny  how  they  all  quit  eatin'  and  drinkin' 
when  he  speels,  isn't  it?"  remarked  the  wife 
with  a  gratified  smile.  "  Why,  if  he  was  half  a 
man  he  'd  play  all  day  as  well  as  night  and  then 
folks  out  yonder  would  forgit  their  vittles  alto- 
gether. I  suppose  he  give  you  the  same  old 
yarn?" 

Harry  bristled :  "  What  old  story,  madame  ? 
Mr.  Feodor  Wilkins  told  us  of  his  studies 
abroad  and  his  unsuccessful  d^but  in  London. 
It's  a  beautiful  story.  He's  a  great  artist,  and 
you  ought  to  be  proud  of  him." 

The  woman  burst  into  laughter.  "  Why,  the 
1 68 


THE   RED-HEADED   PIANO   PLAYER 

old  fraud  has  been  stringing  you.  Fedderr,  he 
calls  himself!  His  name  is  Benny,  just  plain 
Benny  Wilkins,  and  he  never  saw  London. 
He  's  from  Boston  way,  took  lessons  at  some 
big  observatory  up  there,  and  he  run  up  such 
a  big  slate  with  me  that  he  married  me  to 
sponge  it  out.  Schwamm  d'riiber !  you  know. 
My  first  husband  left  a  nice  little  tavern,  and 
them  music  stoodents  just  flocked  out  after  les- 
sons was  over  to  drink  beer.  Oh,  dear  me, 
Benny  was  a  nice  boy,  but  he  always  did  drink 
too  much.  Then  we  moved  to  Harlem  and  I 
rented  this  place  for  the  summer.  I  expect  to 
make  a  tidy  sum  before  I  leave,  if  Benny  only 
stays  straight." 

There  was  something  pathetic  in  this  last 
cadence,  and  the  two  boys  leaned  back  and 
listened  to  the  presto  of  the  Chopin  B  flat 
minor  Sonata,  which  Wilkins  took  at  a  tremen- 
dous pace. 

"  Sounds  as  if  he  were  the  wind  weaving  over 
his  own  grave,"  said  Harry,  mournfully.  The 
boys  had  drunk  too  much,  and  the  close  atmos- 
phere and  music  were  beginning  to  tell  on  their 
nerves. 

"  He  's  a  tramp  of  genius,  that 's  what  he  is," 
growled  Billy  crossly. 

"  But  we  Ve  got  a  story,"  interjected  the 
other. 

"  Yes,  and  were  taken  in  finely.     Hanged  if  I 
did  n't  believe  the  fellow  while  he  was  yarning." 
169 


MELOMANIACS 

"  You  gentiemen  won't  mind  me  leaving  you, 
will  you  ?  It 's  near  closing-up  time,  and  I  Ve 
got  to  be  the  boss.  Benny,  he  sticks  close  to 
the  planner  as  it  gits  late.  I  reckon  he  feels 
his  licker.  Ain't  he  a  dandy  with  them  skinny 
fingers  o'  his?" 

She  moved  away,  giving  her  husband  a  warn- 
ing not  to  leave  his  perch,  and  went  barwards 
to  overhaul  her  receipts.  .  .  . 

The  lights  were  nearly  all  out  and  the  drum- 
ming of  the  breakers  on  the  beach  clearly  could  be 
felt.  The  young  men  paid  their  bill  and  shook 
hands  with  the  pianist.  He  leaned  over  the 
edge  of  the  platform  and  spoke  to  them  in  a 
low  voice. 

"  Come  again,  gentlemen,  come  again.  Don't 
mind  what  she  tells  you.  I  'm  not  her  husband, 
no  matter  what  she  said  just  now.  She  owns  me 
body  and  soul  for  this  year.  I  swear  to  God 
it 's  not  the  drink.  I  need  the  experience  in 
public.  I  must  play  all  the  time  before  that 
awful  nervous  terror  wears  off.  This  is  the 
place  to  get  in  touch  with  common  folk;  if  I 
can  hold  them  with  Chopin  what  won't  I  be  able 
to  do  with  an  appreciative  audience !  Believe 
me,  gentlemen,  I  pray  of  you ;  give  me  a  year, 
only  one  year,  and  I  '11  get  out  of  this  nervous- 
ness and  this  nightmare,  and  the  world  of  music 
will  hear  of  me.  Only  give  me  time."  Feodor 
Wilkins  placed  his  hand  desperately  on  the  pit 
of  his  stomach;  his  wife  screamed: 
170 


THE    RED-HEADED   PIANO   PLAYER 

"  Benny,  come  right  over  here  and  count  the 
cash." 

The  boys  got  into  the  open  air  and  scented 
the  surf  with  delight,  a  moon  enlaced  with  deli- 
cate cloud  streamers  made  magic  in  the  sky; 
then  Harry  growled : 

"  Say,  Bill,  do  you  believe  that  story?"  .  .  . 


ifl 


BRYNHILD'S    IMMOLATION 

SHE  had  infinitely  sad,  wide  eyes.  The  sweet 
pangs  of  maternity  and  art  had  not  been  denied 
this  woman  with  the  vibrant  voice  and  tempera- 
ment of  fire.  Singing  only  in  the  Wagner 
music  dramas  critics  awarded  her  the  praise 
that  pains.  She  did  not  sing  as  Patti,  but  oh ! 
the  sonorous  heart.  .  .  . 

"  Gotterdammerung  "  was  being  declaimed  in 
a  fervent  and  eminently  Teutonic  fashion.  The 
house  was  fairly  filled  though  it  could  hardly 
be  called  a  brilliant  gathering;  the  conductor 
dragged  the  tempi,  the  waits  were  interminable. 
A  young  girl  sat  and  wonderingly  watched. 
Her  mother  was  the  Brynhild.  .  .  . 

This  daughter  was  a  strange  girl.  Her  only 
education  was  the  continual  smatter  which  comes 
from  many  cities  superficially  glided.  She  spoke 
French  with  the  accent  of  Vienna,  and  her  Ger- 
man had  in  it  some  of  the  lingering  lees  of  the 
Dutch.  Wherever  they  pitched  their  tent  the 
girl  went  abroad  in  the  city,  absorbing  it.  Thus 
she  knew  many  things  denied  women  ;  and  when 
her  mother  was  summoned  to  Bayreuth,  she  soon 
forgot  all  in  the  mists,  weavings  and  golden 
noise  of  Wagner.  Then  followed  five  happy 


BRYNHILD'S   IMMOLATION 

years.  The  singer  prospered  at  Bayreuth  and 
engagements  trod  upon  the  heels  of  engagements. 
Her  girl  was  petted,  grew  tall,  shy,  and  one  day 
they  said,  "  She  is  a  young  woman."  The  heart 
of  the  child  beat  tranquilly  in  her  bosom,  and 
her  thoughts  took  on  little  color  of  the  life  about 
her. 

Once,  after  "  Tristan  und  Isolde  "  she  asked  : 

"  Why  do  you  never  speak  of  my  father?  " 

Her  mother,  sitting  on  the  bed,  was  coiling 
her  glorious  hair;  the  open  dress  revealed  the 
massive  throat  and  great  white  shoulders. 

"  Your  father  died  years  ago,  child.  Why 
do  you  ask  now  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  directly  at  her. 

"  I  thought  to-night  how  lovely  if  he  had  only 
been  Tristan  instead  of  Herr  Albert." 

The  other's  face  was  draped  by  hair.  She 
did  not  speak  for  a  moment. 

"  Yes.  But  he  never  sarig :  your  father  was 
not  a  music  lover."  .  .  . 

Presently  they  embraced  affectionately  and 
went  to  bed ;  the  singer  did  not  sleep  at  once. 
Her  thoughts  troubled  her.  .  .  . 

Madame  Stock  was  a  great  but  unequal  artist. 
She  had  never  concerned  herself  with  the  little 
things  of  the  vocal  art.  Nature  had  given  her 
much  ;  voice,  person,  musical  temperament,  dra- 
matic aptitude.  She  erred  artistically  on  the 
side  of  over-emphasis,  and  occasionally  tore 
passion  to  pieces.  But  she  had  the  true  fire, 
173 


MELOMANIACS 

and  with  time  would  compass  repose  and  sym- 
metry. Toward  conquering  herself  she  seldom 
gave  a  thought.  Her  unhappy  marriage  had  left 
its  marks;  she  was  cynical  and  often  reckless; 
but  with  the  growth  of  her  daughter  came  reflec- 
tion. .  .  .  Hilda  was  not  to  be  treated  as  other 
girls.  Her  Scotch  ancestry  showed  itself  early. 
The  girl  did  not,  and  could  not,  see  the  curious 
life  about  her ;  it  was  simply  a  myopia  that  her 
mother  fostered.  Thus,  through  all  the  welter 
and  confusion  of  an  opera-singer's  life,  Hilda 
walked  serenely.  She  knew  there  were  dis- 
agreeable things  in  the  world  but  refused  her- 
self even  the  thought  of  them.  It  was  not  the 
barrier  of  innocence  but  rather  a  selection  of 
certain  aspects  of  life  that  she  fancied,  and  an 
absolute  impassibility  in  the  presence  of  evil. 
Then  her  mother  grew  more  careful. 

Hilda  loved  Wagner.  She  knew  every  work 
of  the  Master  from  "  Die  Feen  "  to  "  Parsifal." 
She  studied  music,  arduously  playing  accompani- 
ments for  her  mother.  In  this  way  she  learned 
the  skeleton  of  the  mighty  music  dramas,  and 
grew  up  absorbing  the  torrid  music  as  though 
it  were  Mozartean.  She  repeated  the  stories  of 
the  dramas  as  a  child  its  astronomy  lessons, 
without -feeling.  She  saw  Siegmund  and  Sieg- 
linde  entwined  in  that  wondrous  Song  of  Spring, 
and  would  have  laughed  in  your  face  if  you 
hinted  that  all  this  was  anything  but  many- 
colored  arabesque.  It  was  her  daily  bread  and 


BRYNHILD'S   IMMOLATION 

butter,  and  like  one  of  those  pudic  creatures  of 
the  Eleusinian  mysteries  she  lived  in  the  very 
tropics  of  passion,  yet  without  one  pulse-throb 
of  its  feverishness.  It  was  the  ritual  of  Wagner 
she  worshipped;  the  nerves  of  his  score  had 
never  been  laid  bare  to  her.  She  took  her 
mother's  tumult  in  good  faith,  and  ridiculed 
singers  of  more  frigid  temperaments.  When  she 
writhed  in  Tristan's  arms  this  vestal  sat  in  front, 
a  piano  score  on  her  lap,  carefully  listening,  and 
later,  at  home,  she  would  say : 

"  Dearest,  you  skipped  two  bars  in  the  scene 
with  Brangaene,"  and  the  singer  could  not  con- 
tradict the  stern  young  critic.  .  .  . 

Herr  Albert  sang  with  them  longer  than  most 
tenors.  They  met  him  in  Bayreuth  and  then  in 
Munich.  When  they  went  to  Berlin  Albert  was 
with  them,  and  also  in  London.  Her  mother 
said  that  his  style  and  acting  suited  her  better 
than  any  artist  with  whom  she  had  ever  sung. 
He  was  a  young  man,  much  younger  than 
Madame  Stock,  and  a  Hungarian.  Tall  and  very 
dark,  he  looked  unlike  the  ideal  Wagner  tenor. 
Hilda  teased  him  and  called  him  the  hero  of 
a  melodrama.  She  grew  fond  of  the  young 
man,  who  was  always  doing  her  some  favor.  To 
her  mother  he  was  extremely  polite ;  indeed  he 
treated  her  as  a  queen. 

One  afternoon  Hilda  went  back  to  the  dress- 
ing-room. In  the  darkness  of  the  corridor  she 
ran  against  some  one  —  a  man.  As  she  turned 


MELOMANIACS 

to  apologize  she  was  caught  up  in  a  pair  of 
strong  arms  and  kissed.  It  was  all  over  in  the 
tick  of  the  clock,  and  then  she  ran  —  ran  into  the 
room,  frightened,  indignant,  her  face  burning. 

Her  mother's  back  was  toward  her,  she  was 
preparing  for  the  last  act  of  "  Walkiire."  She 
knew  Hilda's  footsteps.  The  girl  threw  herself 
on  a  couch  and  covered  her  hot  face  with  the 
cushions.  The  woman  hummed  "  Ho,  jo  to- 
ho  !  "  and  continued  dressing.  And  then  came 
her  call. 

Hilda  sat  and  thought.  She  must  tell  —  she 
would  tell  her.  But  the  man,  what  of  him?  She 
knew  who  it  was,  knew  it  by  intuition.  She  did 
not  see  his  face,  but  she  knew  the  man.  Oh, 
why  did  he  do  it?  Why?  She  blushed  and  with 
her  handkerchief  she  rubbed  her  lips  until  they 
stung.  Wipe  away  the  kiss  she  must,  or  she 
could  never  look  him  in  the  face  again.  .  .  . 

It  seemed  a  long  time  before  Brynhild  re- 
turned. Footsteps  and  laughter  told  of  her  ap- 
proach. The  maid  came  in  first  carrying  a  shawl, 
and  at  the  door  the  singer  paused.  Hilda  half 
rose  in  fear  —  not  knowing  who  was  talking. 
Of  course  it  was  Albert.  The  door  was  partly 
opened,  and  Hilda,  looking  at  her  mother  on 
the  top  steps  of  the  little  staircase,  saw  her 
lower  her  head  to  the  level  of  the  tenor's  face 
and  kiss  him.  .  .  .  Fainting,  the  girl  leaned  back 
and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  The 
other  entered  in  whirlwind  fashion. 
176 


BRYNHILD'S  IMMOLATION 

"  My  Hilda.  My  God  !  child,  have  you  been 
mooning  here  ever  since  I  went  on?  What  is 
the  matter?  You  look  flushed.  Let  us  go 
home  and  have  a  quiet  cup  of  tea.  Albert  is 
coming  for  us  to  go  to  some  nice  place  for 
dinner.  Come,  come,  rouse  yourself!  Marie- 
chen  "  —  to  the  maid  —  "  don't  be  stupid.  D6- 
p£chez-vous,  de'pe'chez-vous !  " 

And  Madame  Stock  bustled  about  and  half 
tore  off  her  cuirass,  pitched  her  helmet  in  the 
corner  and  looked  very  much  alive  and  young. 

"Oh,  what  a  Wotan,  Mein  Gott !  what  a 
man.  Do  you  know  what  he  was  doing  when  I 
sang  '  War  es  so  schmahlich? '  He  had  his  back 
to  the  house  and  chewed  gum.  I  swear  it. 
When  I  grabbed  his  legs  in  anguish  the  beast 
chewed  gum,  his  whole  body  trembled  from  the 
exertion;  he  says  that  it  is  good  for  a  dry 
throat." 

Hilda  hardly  listened.  Her  mother  had 
kissed  Albert,  and  she  shook  as  one  with  the 
ague.  .  .  . 

She  pleaded  a  headache,  and  did  not  go  to 
dinner.  The  next  day  they  left  Hamburg,  and 
Albert  did  not  accompany  them.  Madame 
Stock  declared  that  she  needed  a  rest,  and  the 
pair  went  to  Carlsbad.  There  they  stayed  two 
weeks.  The  nervous,  excitable  soprano  could 
not  long  bide  in  one  place.  She  was  tired  of 
singing,  but  she  grew  restless  for  the  theatre. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  cried  to  Hilda,  in  the  train 

12  ,77 


MELOMANIACS 

which  bore  them  toward  Berlin.  "  Yes,  the 
opera  is  crowded  every  night  when  I  sing. 
You  know  that  I  get  flowers,  enjoy  triumphs 
enough  to  satisfy  me.  Well,  I  'm  sick  of  it  all. 
I  believe  that  I  shall  end  by  going  mad.  It 
may  become  a  monomania.  I  often  say,  Why 
all  this  feverishness,  this  art  jargon?  Why 
should  I  burn  myself  up  with  Isolde  and  weep 
my  heart  out  with  Sieglinde  ?  Why  go  on  re- 
peating words  that  I  do  not  believe  in  ?  Art ! 
oh,  I  hate  the  word."  .  .  . 

Hilda,  her  eyes  half  closed,  watched  the  neat 
German  landscape  unroll  itself. 

Her  mother  grumbled  until  she  fell  asleep. 

Her  face  was  worn  and  drawn  in  the  twilight, 
and  Hilda  noticed  the  heavy  markings  about 
the  mouth  and  under  the  eyes  and  the  few  gray 
hairs. 

She  caught  herself  analyzing,  and  stopped 
with  a  guilty  feeling.  Yes,  Dearest  was  begin- 
ning to  look  old.  The  stress  and  strain  of  Wag- 
ner was  showing.  In  a  few  years,  when  her 
voice —  Hilda  closed  her  eyes  determinedly  and 
tried  to  shut  out  a  picture.  But  then  she  was 
not  sure,  not  sure  of  herself. 

She  began  thinking  of  Albert.  His  swarthy 
face  forced  itself  upon  her,  and  her  mother's 
image  grew  faint.  Why  did  he  kiss  her,  why? 
Surely  it  must  have  been  some  mistake  —  it  was 
dark ;  perhaps  he  mistook  her.  Here  her  heart 
began  beating  so  that  it  tolled  like  a  bell  in  her 
178 


BRYNHILD'S   IMMOLATION 

brain  —  mistook  her,  oh,  God,  for  her  mother ! 
No !  no  !  That  could  never  be.  Had  she  not 
caught  him  watching  her  very  often  ?  But  then 
why  should  her  mother  have  kissed  him  — 
perhaps  merely  a  motherly  interest. 

Hilda  sat  upright  and  tried  to  discern  some 
expression  on  her  mother's  face.  But  it  was  too 
dark.  The  train  rattled  on  toward  Berlin.  .  .  . 

The  next  day  at  the  H6tel  Bellevue  there 
was  much  running  to  and  fro.  Musical  man- 
agers went  upstairs  smiling  and  came  down 
raging;  musical  managers  rushed  in  raging 
and  fled  roaring.  Madame  Stock  drove  a  hard 
bargain,  and,  during  the  chaffering  and  gabble 
about  dates  and  terms,  Hilda  went  out  for  a 
long  walk.  Unter  den  Linden  is  hardly  a 
promenade  for  privacy,  but  this  girl  was  quite 
alone  as  she  trod  the  familiar  walk,  alone  as  if 
she  were  the  last  human  on  the  pave.  She  did 
not  notice  that  she  was  being  followed;  when 
she  turned  homeward  she  faced  Herr  Albert, 
the  famous  Wagnerian  tenor. 

She  felt  a  little  shocked,  but  her  placidity 
was  too  deep-rooted  to  be  altogether  destroyed. 
And  so  Albert  found  himself  looking  into  two 
large  eyes  the  persistency  of  whose  gaze  dis- 
concerted him. 

"  Ach,  Fraulein  Hilda,  I  'm  so  glad.  How 
are  you,  and  when  did  you  return  ?  " 

She   had  a  central  grip  on   herself,  and  re- 
garded him  quite  steadily. 
179 


MELOMANIACS 

He  noticed  it  and  became  abashed  —  he,  the 
hero  of  a  hundred  footlights.  He  could  not 
face  her  pure,  threatening  eyes. 

"  Herr  Albert,  we  got  back  last  night.  Herr 
Albert,  why  did  you  kiss  me  in  the  theatre?" 

He  looked  startled  and  reddened. 

"  Because  I  love  you,  Hilda.  Yes,  I  did  it 
because  I  love  you,"  he  replied,  and  his  accents 
were  embarrassed. 

"  You  love  me,  Herr  Albert,"  pursued  the 
terrible  Hilda.  "Yet  you  were  kissed  by 
mamma  an  hour  later.  Do  you  love  her  too?" 

The  tenor  trembled  and  said  nothing.  .  .  . 

The  girl  insisted : 

"Do  you  love  mamma  too?  You  must,  for 
she  kissed  you  and  you  did  not  move  away." 

Albert  was  plainly  nervous. 

"  Yes,  I  love  your  mamma,  too,  but  in  a  dif- 
ferent way.  Oh,  dearest  Hilda,  you  don't 
understand.  I  am  the  artistic  associate  of 
your  mother.  But  I  love  —  I  love  you." 

Hilda  felt  the  ground  grow  billowy ;  the  day 
seemed  supernaturally  bright.  She  took  Al- 
bert's arm  and  they  walked  slowly,  without  a 
word. 

When  the  hotel  was  reached  she  motioned 
him  not  to  come  in,  and  she  flew  to  her  mother's 
room.  The  singer  was  alone.  She  sat  at  the 
window  and  in  her  lap  was  a  photograph.  She 
looked  old  and  soul-weary. 

Hilda  rushed  toward  her,  but  stopped  in  the 
180 


BRYNHILD'S   IMMOLATION 

middle  of  the  room,  overcome  by  some  subtle 
fear  that  seized  her  throat  and  limb. 

Madame  Stock  looked  at  her  wonderingly. 

"Hilda,  Hilda,  have  you  gone  mad?  " 

Hilda  went  over  to  her  and  put  her  arms 
about  her  and  whispered : 

"  Oh,  mamma,  mamma,  he  loves  me ;  he  has 
just  told  me  so." 

Her  mother  started : 

"  He !  Who  loves  you,  Hilda?  What  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

Hilda's  eyes  drooped,  and  then  she  saw  the 
photograph  in  the  soprano's  hand. 

It  was  Albert's.  .  .  . 

"  I  love  him  —  you  have  his  picture  —  he 
gave  it  to  you  for  me?  Oh!  he  has  spoken, 
Dearest,  he  has  spoken." 

The  picture  dropped  to  the  floor.  .  .  . 

"  Mamma,  mamma,  what  is  the  matter?  Are 
you  angry  at  me?  Do  you  dislike  Albert? 
No,  surely  no ;  I  saw  you  kiss  him  at  the 
theatre.  He  says  that  he  loves  you,  but  it  is  a 
different  love.  It  must  be  a  Siegmund  and 
Sieglinde  love,  Dearest,  is  it  not?  But  he  loves 
me.  Don't  be  cross  to  him  for  loving  me. 
He  can't  help  it.  And  he  says  we  must  all 
live  together,  if—  "... 

The  singer  closed  her  eyes  and  the  corners 
of  her  mouth  became  tense.  Then  she  looked 
at  her  daughter  almost  fiercely.  Hilda  was 
terrified. 

181 


MELOMANIACS 

"  Tell  me,  Hilda,  swear  to  me,  and  think  of 
what  you  are  saying:  Do  you  love  Albert?" 

"  With  my  heart,"  answered  the  girl  in  all  her 
white  simplicities. 

Her  mother  laughed  and  arose. 

"  Then  you  silly  little  goose,  you  shall  marry 
him  and  be  nice  and  unhappy."  Hilda  cried 
with  joy :  "  I  don't  care  if  I  am  unhappy  with 
him." 

"  Idiot !  "  replied  the  other. 

That  night  "  Gotterdammerung "  was  given. 
The  conductor  dragged  the  tempi ;  the  waits 
were  interminable,  and  a  young  slip  of  a  girl 
wonderingly  watched.  Her  mother  was  the 
Brynhild.  The  performance  was  redeemed  by 
the  magnificent  singing  of  the  Immolation 
scene.  .  .  . 

Later  Brynhild  faced  her  mirror  and  asked 
no  favor  of  it.  As  she  uncoiled  the  heavy  ropes 
of  hair  her  eyes  grew  harsh,  and  for  a  moment 
her  image  seemed  blurred  and  bitter  in  the 
oval  glass  with  the  burnished  frame  that  stood 
upon  the  dressing-table.  But  at  last  she  would 
achieve  the  unique  Brynhild  !  .  .  . 

"  Entbehren  sollst  du,  sollst  entbehren." 


182 


THE   QUEST   OF   THE   ELUSIVE 

To  Miss  Bella  Seymour 

BALAK,  November  5. 

DEAR  DARLING  OLD  BELLA,  —  How  I  wish 
you  were  with  me.  I  miss  you  almost  as  much 
as  mamma  and  the  girls.  I  Ve  had  such  a 
homesickness  that  even  the  elegant  concerts, 
the  gay  city  and  the  novelty  of  this  out  of  the 
way  foreign  place  do  not  compensate,  for  Why, 
oh  why,  does  n't  Herr  Klug  live  in  Berlin  or 
Paris,  or  even  Vienna?  Think,  after  you  leave 
Vienna  you  must  travel  six  hours  by  boat  and 
three  by  rail  before  you  reach  Balak,  but  what  a 
city,  what  curious  houses,  and  what  an  opera 
house  ! 

Let  me  first  tell  you  of  my  experiences  with 
Herr  Klug.  I  met  the  Ransoms ;  you  remem- 
ber those  queer  Michigan  avenue  people.  They 
are  here  with  their  mother  —  snuffy  Mother 
Ransom  we  used  to  call  her —  and  are  both 
studying  with  Herr  Klug.  I  met  them  on  the 
Ringstrasse  —  the  principal  avenue  here  —  and 
they  looked  so  dissatisfied  when  they  saw  me. 
Ada,  the  short,  thin  one,  you  know  —  well,  she 
lowered  her  parasol  —  say,  the  weather  is  awful 
'83 


MELOMANIACS 

hot  —  and,  honest,  I  believed  she  was  n't  going 
to  speak  to  me.  But  Lizzie  is  the  nice  one, 
and  she  fairly  ate  me  up.  They  raved  about 
Herr  Klug.  He  is  so  nice,  so  gentle,  and  plays 
so  wonderfully  !  Mrs.  Ransom  was  a  trifle  cool 
—  she  and  ma  never  did  get  along,  you  remem- 
ber that  fight  about  free  lager  for  indigent 
Germans  in  sultry  weather?  —  well,  she  and  ma 
quarrelled  over  the  meaning  of  the  word  "  in- 
digent," and  Mrs.  R.  said  that  she  was  indigent 
at  ma's  ignorance ;  then  ma  burst  into  a  fit  of 
laughter.  I  heard  her  —  it  was  a  real  mean 
laugh,  Bella,  and  —  but  I  must  tell  you  about 
this  place.  Dear,  I  'm  quite  out  of  breath ! 

Well,  the  Ransoms  took  me  off  to  lunch  and 
it  was  real  nice  at  their  boarding  house ;  they 
call  it  the  Hotel  Serbe,  or  some  such  name,  and 
I  almost  regretted  that  I  went  to  the  miserable 
rooms  I  'm  in,  but  1  have  to  be  economical,  and 
as  I  intend  practising  all  day  and  sleeping  all 
night  it  doesn't  matter  much  where  I  am.  I 
forgot  to  tell  you  what  we  had  for  lunch,  funny 
dishes,  sour  and  full  of  red  pepper.  I  '11  tell 
you  all  about  it  in  my  next  letter.  I  'm  so  full 
of  Herr  Klug  that  I  can't  sit  still.  He  is  a  grand 
man,  Bella,  only  very  old,  and  very  small,  and 
very  nervous,  and  very  cross.  He  did  n't  say 
much  to  me  and  I  held  my  tongue,  for  they  say 
he  is  so  nervous  that  he  is  almost  crazy,  besides, 
he  hates  American  pupils.  When  I  went  into 
the  big  lesson  room  it  was  empty,  and  I  had  a 
184 


THE   QUEST   OF  THE   ELUSIVE 

good  chance  to  look  at  all  the  pictures  on  the 
wall.  There  were  Bach,  Beethoven  and  Herr 
Klug  at  every  age.  There  must  have  been  at 
least  thirty  portraits.  He  was  homely  in  every 
one,  and  wore  his  hair  long,  and  has  such  a 
high,  noble  forehead.  You  know  Chicago  men 
have  such  low  foreheads.  I  love  high  foreheads. 
They  are  so  destingue  (is  that  spelt  right?)  and 
it  means  such  a  lot  of  brains.  He  was  photo- 
graphed with  Liszt  and  with  Chopin.  I  think 
it  was  Chopin,  and  — just  then  he  came  in.  He 
walked  very  slowly  and  his  shoulders  were 
stooped.  Oh,  Bella,  he  has  such  a  venerable 
look,  so  saintly !  Well,  he  stood  in  the  door- 
way and  his  eyeglasses  fairly  stared  into  me,  he 
has  such  piercing  gaze.  I  was  scared  out  of  my 
seven  senses  and  stood  stock  still. 

"  Nu  was !  "  he  cried  out ;  "  where  do  you 
come  from?"  His  English  was  maddening, 
Bella,  just  maddening,  but  I  understood  him, 
and  with  my  heart  in  my  boots  I  said : 

"  Chicago,  Herr  Klug."     He  snorted. 

"  Chicago.  I  hate  Chicago,  I  hate  Americans  ! 
There 's  only  one  city  in  America  —  that  is 
San  Francisco.  I  was  never  there,  but  I  like 
it  because  I  never  had  a  pupil  from  that  city ; 
that 's  why  I  like  it,  hein!"  He  laughed,  Bella, 
and  coughed  himself  into  a  strangling  fit  over 
his  joke —  he  thought  it  was  a  joke  —  and  then 
he  sharply  cried  out : 

"  You  may  kiss  me,  and  play  for  me."  I  was 
185 


MELOMANIACS 

too  frightened  to  reply,  so  I  went  up  to  him 
and  did  n'  t  like  him.  He  smelt  of  cigarettes 
and  liquor,  but  I  kissed  him  on  the  forehead, 
and  he  gave  me  a  queer  look  and  pushed  me  to 
the  piano.  Well,  I  was  flabbergasted. 

"  Play,"  he  said,  as  harsh  as  could  be,  and  I 
dashed  off  the  Military  Polonaise  of  Chopin. 
He  walked  about  the  whole  time  humming  out 
loud,  and  never  paid  any  attention  to  me  any 
more  than  if  I  had  n't  been  playing.  When  I 
got  to  the  trio  I  stuck,  and  he  burst  out  laugh- 
ing, so  I  stopped  short. 

"  Aha  !  you  girls  and  your  teachers,  how  you, 
all  swindle  yourselves.  You  have  no  talent,  no 
touch,  nothing,  nothing  !  "  —  his  voice  was  like  a 
screaming  whistle  —  "  and  yet  you  cheat  your- 
selves and  run  to  Europe  to  be  artists  in  a  year, 
aha !  "  "  Shall  I  go  on?  "  I  asked.  I  was  getting 
mad.  "  No,  I  Ve  heard  enough.  Come  to  the 
class  every  Monday  and  Thursday  morning  at 
ten  —  mind  you,  ten  sharp — and  in  the  mean- 
time study  this  piece  of  mine,  '  The  Five  Black- 
birds,' for  the  black  keys,  and  take  the  first 
book  of  my  '  Indispensable  Studies  for  Stupid 
American  Girls.'  "  He  laughed  again. 

"You  pay  now  for  the  music.  I  make  no 
discount,  for  I  print  it  myself.  Your  lessons 
you  pay  for  one  by  one.  Please  put  the  money 
—  twenty  marks  —  on  the  mantelpiece  when 
you  are  through  playing,  but  don't  tell  me.  I  'm 
too  nervous.  And  now  good -day;  practise  ten 
186 


THE   QUEST   OF   THE    ELUSIVE 

hours  every  day.  You  may  kiss  me  good-by. 
No?  Well,  next  time.  I  hate  American  girls 
when  they  play ;  but  I  like  to  kiss  them,  for 
they  are  very  pretty.  Wait:  I  will  introduce 
you  to  my  wife."  He  rang  a  bell  and  barked 
something  at  a  servant,  and  she  returned  fol- 
lowed by  a  nice-looking  German  lady,  quite 
young.  I  was  surprised.  "  My  wife."  We 
bowed  and  then  I  left. 

Funny  people,  these  foreigners.  I  take  my 
lesson  day  after  to-morrow  and  I  must  hurry 
home  to  my  Blackbirds.  Good-by,  dear  Bella, 
and  tell  the  girls  to  write.  You  answer  this 
soon  and  I  '11  write  after  lesson  on  Monday. 
Good-by,  Bella.  Don't  show  my  ma  this  letter, 
and,  Bella  —  say  nothing  to  nobody  about  the 
kisses.  I  did  n't  like  —  now  if  it  had  been 
—  you  know  —  oh,  dear.  I  hate  the  piano. 
Good-by  at  last,  Bella,  and  oh,  Bella,  will  you 
send  me  the  address  of  Schaefer,  Schloss  & 
Cantwell's  ?  I  want  to  order  some  writing  paper. 
Good-by. 

Your  devoted  IRENE. 

P.  S. — Any  kind  of  Irish  linen  paper  will 
do  without  any  monogram.  I. 

To  Mrs.  William  Murray 

BALAK,  January  3 1 . 

MY  DEAR  MAMMA,  —  Certainly  I  got  your  last 
letter.     I  have  not  forgotten  you  at  all,  and  the 
187 


MELOMANIACS 

draft  came  all  right  Bella  Seymour  exag- 
gerates so.  Herr  Klug  kisses  all  his  pupils  in 
the  class,  but  just  as  Grandpa  Murray  would. 
He 's  old  enough  to  be  our  grandfather ;  be- 
sides, as  Mrs  Ransom  says,  it  is  not  for  our 
beauty,  but  when  we  play  well,  that  he  rewards 
us.  I  'm  sure  I  don't  like  it,  and  if  Mrs.  Klug, 
or  his  six  or  seven  cousins  who  live  with  him, 
caught  him  they  would  make  a  lively  time.  I 
never  saw  such  a  jealous  set  of  relatives  in  my 
life.  How  am  I  improving?  Oh,  splendid; 
just  splendid.  I  do  wish  you  would  n't  coax 
and  worm  out  of  Bella  Seymour  all  I  write. 
You  know  girls  exaggerate  so.  Good-by,  dar- 
ling mamma.  Give  my  love  to  pa  and  Harry. 
I  '11  write  soon.  Yes,  I  need  one  new  morning 
frock.  I  owe  for  one  at  a  store  here  where  the 
Ransoms  go.  Lizzie  Ransom  is  the  nicest,  but 
I  play  better  than  she  does. 

Your  affectionate  daughter, 

IRENE. 


To  Miss  Bella  Seymour 

BALAK,  March  2. 

You  MEAN  OLD  THING,  —  I  got  your  letter, 
Bella,  but  I  don't  understand  yet  how  you  came 
to  tell  mamma  the  nonsense  I  wrote.  Such  a  lot 
of  things  have  happened  since  I  wrote  last  fall. 
I  have  n't  improved  a  bit.  I  have  no  talent,  old 
man  Kluggy  says  —  he  's  such  a  soft  old  fool. 
188 


THE   QUEST   OF  THE   ELUSIVE 

He  can't  play  a  bit,  but  he 's  always  talking 
about  his  method,  his  virtuosity,  his  wonderful 
memory  and  his  marvellous  touch.  He  must 
have  played  well  when  he  was  painted  with 
Beethoven  in  the  same  picture.  Yes,  he  knew 
Beethoven.  He  's  as  old  as  old  what  's-his-name 
who  ate  grass  and  died  of  a  colic,  in  the  Bible. 
Golly,  would  n't  I  like  to  get  out  of  this  hole, 
but  I  promised  pa  I  'd  stick  it  out  until  spring. 
I  play  nothing  but  Klug  compositions,  his 
valses,  mazurkas — mind  his  nerve,  he  says  he 
gave  Chopin  points  on  mazurkas;  and  Bella, 
Bella,  what  do  you  think,  I  've  found  out  all 
about  his  cousins  !  I  wrote  ma  that  all  the  old 
hens  in  his  house  were  his  cousins,  and  I  spoke 
of  his  wife.  Bella,  he  has  no  wife,  he  has  no 
cousins.  What  do  you  think?  I  '11  tell  you  how 
I  found  it  out.  The  Ransom  girls  know,  but 
they  don't  let  on  to  their  mother.  The  first  les- 
son I  took,  Klug  —  I  hate  that  man  —  motioned 
me  to  wait  until  the  other  girls  had  gone.  He 
pretended  to  fool  and  fuss  over  some  autographs 
of  Bach  and  a  lot  of  other  old  idiots  —  I  hate 
Bach,  too,  nasty  dry  stuff — and  I  knew  what  he 
was  up  to.  He  glared  at  me  through  his  spec- 
tacles for  a  while  and  then  mumbled  out : 

"You  may  kiss  me  before  you  go."  Not 
much,  I  thought,  and  told  him  so.  He  rang  a 
bell.  The  servant  came.  "  Send  my  wife  down. 
Schnell,  du."  She  hesitated  and  he  yelled  out. 
"Dummkopf"  and  then  turned  to  me  and 
189 


MELOMANIACS 

smiled.  The  old  monkey  had  forgotten  that  he 
had  introduced  me  to  Frau  Klug  two  days 
before.  In  a  minute  I  heard  the  swish  of  a 
silk  dress  and  a  fine-looking  old  lady  entered. 
I  was  introduced  to —  what  do  you  think? 
Frau  Klug,  please.  I  nearly  fell  over,  for  I 
remembered  well  the  frightened-looking  Ger- 
man girl  —  a  pretty  girl,  too,  only  dressed  rotten. 
Well,  I  got  out  the  best  I  could  —  I  could  n't 
talk  German  or  Balakian  —  a  hideous  language, 
full  of  coughing  and  barking  sounds  —  so  I 
bowed  and  got  out.  Now  comes  the  funny 
part  of  it,  Bella.  Every  time  the  old  fool  tries 
to  kiss  me  I  ask  him  to  introduce  me  to  his  wife, 
and  he  invariably  answers :  "  What,  you  have 
not  met  my  wife  ?  "  and  rings  for  the  ugly  ser- 
vant who  stands  grinning  until  I  really  expect 
her  to  say  "  Which  one  ?"  but  she  never  does. 
I  Ve  counted  seventeen  so  far,  all  sizes,  ages 
and  complexions. 

The  class  says  they  are  old  pupils  who 
could  n't  pay  their  bills,  so  Kluggy  got  a  mort- 
gage on  them,  and  they  have  to  stay  with  him 
until  they  work  the  mortgage  off  by  sewing, 
washing,  cooking  and  teaching  beginners.  I  Ve 
not  seen  them  all  yet,  and  Anne  Sypher,  from 
Cleveland,  swears  that  there  is  a  dungeon  in  the 
house  full  of  girls  from  the  eighteenth  century 
who  had  n't  money  enough  to  pay  for  their 
lessons.  I  'm  sure  ugly  Babette,  the  servant, 
is  an  old  pupil,  for  one  day  I  sneaked  into  the 
190 


THE   QUEST  OF  THE   ELUSIVE 

dining-room  and  heard  her  playing  the  Bella 
Capricciosa,  by  Hummel,  on  an  upright  piano 
that  was  almost  falling  apart.  Heavens !  how 
she  started  when  she  saw  me  !  The  old  lady  he 
introduced  me  to  the  second  time  was  a  pupil 
of  Steibelt's,  and  she  played  the  "  Storm  "  for  us 
in  class  when  the  professor  was  sick.  She  must 
have  been  good-looking.  Her  fingers  were 
quite  lively.  Honest,  it  is  the  joke  of  Balak, 
and  we  girls  have  grown  so  sensitive  on  the 
subject  that  we  never  walk  out  in  a  crowd,  for 
the  young  men  at  the  corners  call  out,  "  Hello, 
there  goes  the  new  crop  for  1902."  It  is  very 
embarrassing. 

Bella,  I  want  to  tell  you  something.  Swear 
that  you  will  never  tell  my  father  or  mother. 
I  don't  give  a  rap  for  music ;  I  hate  it,  but  I 
like  the  young  men  here  in  Balak,  no,  not  the 
citizens.  They  are  slow,  but  the  soldiers,  the 
regiment  attached  to  the  Royal  Household. 
I  Ve  met  a  Lieutenant  Fustics —  oh,  he's  lovely, 
belongs  to  the  oldest  family  in  Serbia,  is  young, 
handsome  and  so  fine  in  his  uniform.  He  is 
crazy  over  music  and  America,  and  says  he  will 
never  bear  to  be  separated  from  me.  Of  course 
he 's  in  love  and  of  course  he  's  foolish,  for  I  'm 
too  young  to  marry  —  fancy,  not  eighteen  yet, 
or,  is  it  nineteen?  —  this  place  makes  me  forget 
my  name  —  besides,  pa  would  n't  hear  of  such 
a  thing.  Herr  Lieutenant  Fustics  asked  my 
father's  business,  and  told  me  all  Americans 
191 


MELOMANIACS 

were  millionaires,  and  I  just  laughed  in  his  face. 
I  play  for  him  in  the  salon—  oh,  no,  not  in  my 
room  —  that  would  be  a  crime  in  this  tight- 
laced  old  town.  Now,  Bella,  don't  tell  mamma 
this  time.  Why  don't  you  write  oftener?  Love 
to  all. 

Your  devoted  IRENE. 

P.  S.  — Bella,  he 's  lovely. 


To  William  Murray,  Esq. 

BALAK,  May  12. 

DEAR  PA,  —  Yes,  I  need  $500,  and  Herr 
Klug  says  if  I  stay  a  year  more  I  can  play  in 
public  when  I  go  back.  Five  hundred  dollars 
will  be  enough  now. 

Your  loving  daughter,  IRENE. 


To  Miss  Bella  Seymour 

BALAK,  May  25. 

DEAR,  SWEET  BELLA,  —  I'm  gone ;  Hector, 
that 's  his  name,  proposed  to  me  —  and  pro- 
posed a  secret  marriage  —  he  says  that  I  can 
study  quietly,  inspired  by  his  love,  for  a  year, 
for  his  regiment  will  stay  in  Balak  for  another 
year.  Oh,  Bella,  I  'm  so  happy.  How  I  wish 
you  could  see  him.  I  simply  don't  go  near  the 
piano.  Old  Klug  is  cross  with  me  and  I  'm 
192 


THE   QUEST   OF   THE   ELUSIVE 

sure  the  Ransoms  are  jealous.     Good-by,  Bella, 
don't  tell  mamma.     Remember  I  trust  you. 

Your  crazy  IRENE. 

P.  S.  —  I  'm  wild  to  get  married  ! 

To  Frau  Wilhelm  Murray 

BALAK,  June  25. 

HIGH  RESPECTED  AND  HONORABLE  MA- 
DAME, —  I  've  not  seen  your  daughter,  the  Frau- 
lein  Irene  Murray,  since  April,  although  she 
has  been  in  Balak.  I  fear  she  has  more  talent 
for  a  military  career  than  as  a  pianist.  She 
does  owe  me  for  two  lessons.  Please  send  me 
the  amount  —  40  marks.  Send  it  care  of 
Frau  Klug  —  Frau  Emma  Klug.  With  good 
weather, 

ARMIN  KLUG. 

To  William  Murray,  Esq. 

August  I. 

DEAR  WILLIAM,  —  I've  found  her  —  my 
heart  bleeds  when  I  think  of  her  face,  poor 
child  —  miles  from  Balak.  Of  course  she  fol- 
lowed the  regiment  when  the  wretch  left,  and  of 
course  he  is  a  married  man.  Oh  !  William,  the 
disgrace,  and  all  for  some  miserable  music  les- 
sons. Send  the  draft  to  Balak  —  to  the  Orien- 
tal Bank.  I  went  as  far  as  Belgrade.  Poor, 
tired,  daring  Irene,  how  she  cried  for  Chicago 
'3  iQ3 


MELOMANIACS 

and  for  her  papa!  Yes,  it  will  be  all  right 
The  girls  in  that  old  mummy's  class  gossiped  a 
little,  but  I  fixed  up  a  story  about  going  to  Ber- 
lin and  lessons  there.  Only  the  hateful  Ran- 
soms smile,  and  ask  every  day  particularly  for 
Irene.  I  'd  like  to  strangle  them.  Have 
patience,  William;  will  be  back  in  the  spring  — 
early  in  the  spring.  My  sweet,  deceived  child, 
our  child  William  !  Oh,  I  could  kill  that  Fizz- 
sticks,  or  whatever  his  name  is.  His  regiment 
is  off  in  the  mountains  somewhere,  and  I  'm 
afraid  of  the  publicity  or  I  'd  get  our  consul 
to  introduce  me  to  the  Queen.  She  is  a  lady, 
and  would  listen  to  my  complaint.  But  Irene 
begs  me  with  frightened  eyes  not  to  say  a  word 
to  any  one.  So  I  '11  go  on  to  Vienna  and  thence 
to  Paris.  For  gracious  sake,  tell  that  Seymour 
girl  —  Bella  Seymour  —  not  to  bother  you 
about  Irene ;  tell  her  anything  you  please.  Tell 
her  Irene  is  too  busy  practising  to  answer  her 
silly  letters.  And  William,  not  a  word  to 
Grandpa  Murray  —  not  a  word,  William  ! 

Your  loving  wife, 
MARTHA  KILBY  MURRAY. 

P.  S.—  I  don't  know,  William. 

Extract  from  the  Daily  Eagle,  November  5,  1903 

The  most  interesting  feature  of  the  concert  was  the 
debut  as  a  pianist  of  Miss  Irene  Murray,  the  daughter 
of  William  Murray,  Esq.,  of  the  Drovers'  National  Bank. 
194 


THE   QUEST   OF   THE   ELUSIVE 

Miss  Murray,  who  was  a  slip  of  a  girl  before  she  went 
abroad  two  years  ago  to  study  with  the  celebrated 
Herr  Armin  Klug,  of  Balak,  returns  a  superb,  self-pos- 
sessed young  woman  of  regal  appearance  and  queenly 
manners.  She  played  a  sweet  bit,  a  fantasia  by  her 
teacher,  Herr  Klug,  entitled  "The  Five  Blackbirds," 
and  displayed  a  wonderful  command  of  the  resources  of 
the  keyboard.  For  encore  she  dashed  off  a  brilliant 
morceau  by  Herr  Klug,  entitled  "  Echoes  de  Serag- 
lio." This  was  very  difficult,  but  for  the  fair  d6bu- 
tante  it  was  child's  play.  She  got  five  recalls,  and 
after  the  concert  held  an  impromptu  reception  in  her 
dressing-room,  her  happy  parents  being  warmly  con- 
gratulated by  their  fellow  townsmen.  We  predict  a 
great  career  for  Irene  Murray.  Among  those  pres- 
ent we  noticed,  etc.,  etc.  .  .  . 


'95 


AN    INVOLUNTARY    INSUR- 
GENT 

Whereas  it  is  far  away  from  bloodshed,  battle-cry  and 
sword-thrust  that  the  lives  of  most  of  us  flow  on,  and  the 
men's  tears  are  silent  to-day,  and  invisible,  and  almost 
spiritual.  ...  —  MAETERLINCK. 

RACAH  hated  music.  Even  his  father  quoted 
with  approval  Th^ophile  Gautier's  witticism 
about  it  being  the  most  costly  of  noises.  Racah, 
as  a  boy,  shouted  under  the  windows  of  neigh- 
bors in  whose  rooms  string-music  was  heard  of 
hot  summer  evenings.  On  every  occasion  his 
nature  testified  to  its  lively  abhorrence  of  tone, 
and  once  he  was  violently  thrust  forth  from  a 
church  by  an  excited  sexton.  Racah  had  whis- 
tled derisively  at  the  feebly  executed  voluntary 
of  the  organist.  An  old  friend  of  the  family  de- 
clared that  the  boy  should  be  trained  as  a  music 
critic  —  he  hated  music  so  intensely.  Racah's 
father  would  arch  his  meagre  eyebrows  and 
crisply  say,  "  My  son  shall  become  a  priest." 
"  But  even  a  priest  must  chaunt  the  mass ;  eh, 
what?" 

The  boy's  sister  had  a  piano  and  tried  to 
play  despite  his  violent  mockery.  One  after- 
196 


AN   INVOLUNTARY    INSURGENT 

noon,  when  the  sun  drove  the  town  to  its  siesta, 
he  wandered  into  the  room  where  stood  the 
instrument.  Moved  by  an  automatic  impulse, 
the  lad  placed  one  finger  on  a  treble  key.  He 
shuddered  as  it  tinkled  under  the  pressure ;  then 
he  struck  the  major  third  and  held  both  keys 
down,  trembling,  while  drops  of  water  formed 
under  his  eyes.  He  hated  the  sound  he  made, 
but  could  not  resist  listening  to  it.  Waves  of 
disgust  rolled  hotly  over  his  heart,  and  he  almost 
choked  from  the  large,  bitter-tasting  ball  that 
rose  in  his  throat.  He  then  struck  the  triad  of 
C  major  in  a  clumsy  way  —  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
later  his  family  found  him  in  a  syncope  at  the 
foot  of  the  piano,  and  sent  for  a  doctor.  Racah's 
eyes  were  open,  but  only  the  whites  showed. 
The  pulse  was  strangely  intermittent,  the  heart 
muffled,  and  the  doctor  set  it  down  to  nervous 
prostration  brought  on  by  strenuous  attendance 
at  church.  It  was  Holy  Week  and  Racah  a 
pious  boy. 

He  soon  recovered,  avoided  the  instrument, 
and  kept  his  peace.  .  .  .  About  this  time  he  be- 
gan going  out  immediately  after  supper,  remain- 
ing away  until  midnight.  This,  coupled  with 
a  relaxation  of  religious  zeal,  drove  his  pious 
father  into  a  frenzy  of  disappointment.  But 
being  wise  in  old  age,  he  did  not  pester  his  son, 
especially  as  the  pale,  melancholy  lad  bore  on 
his  face  no  signs  of  dissipation.  These  disap- 
pearances lasted  for  over  a  year.  Racah  was 
197 


MELOMANIACS 

chided  by  his  mother,  a  large,  chicken-minded 
woman,  who  liked  gossip  and  chocolate.  He 
never  answered  her,  and  on  Sundays  locked 
himself  in  his  room.  Once  his  sister  listened  at 
the  door  and  told  her  father  that  she  heard  her 
brother  counting  aloud  and  clicking  on  the 
table  with  some  soft,  dull-edged  tool,  a  tiny 
mallet,  perhaps. 

The  father's  curiosity  mounted  to  an  unhealthy 
pitch.  He  hated  to  break  into  his  nightly  cus- 
tom of  playing  cards  at  the  Inn  of  The  Quarrel- 
ling Yellow  Cats,  but  his  duty  lay  as  plain  before 
him  as  the  moles  on  his  wrist;  so  he  waited 
until  Racah  went  out,  and  seizing  a  stout  stick 
and  clapping  his  hat  on  his  head,  followed  his 
son  in  lagging  and  deceitful  pursuit.  The  boy 
walked  slowly,  his  head  thrown  back  in  reverie. 
Several  times  he  halted  as  if  the  burden  of  his 
thoughts  clogged  his  very  motion.  Anxiously 
eying  him,  his  father  sneaked  after.  The  ec- 
centric movements  of  his  son  filled  him  with  a 
certain  anguish.  He  was  a  god-fearing  man ; 
erratic  behavior  meant  to  him  the  obsession  of 
the  devil. 

His  son,  his  Racah,  was  tempted  by  the  evil  one  ! 
What  could  he  do  to  save  him  from  the  fiery  pit  ? 
Urged  by  these  burdensome  notions,  he  cried 
aloud,  "  Racah,  my  son,  return  to  thy  home  !  " 
But  he  spoke  to  space.  No  one  was  within 
hearing.  The  street  was  dark;  then  the  sound 
of  music  fell  upon  his  ears,  and  again  he  looked 
198 


AN   INVOLUNTARY   INSURGENT 

about  him.  Racah  had  disappeared.  The 
only  light  came  from  a  window  hard  by.  With 
the  music  it  oozed  out  between  two  half-closed 
shutters,  and  toward  it  the  depressed  one  went. 
He  peeped  in  and  saw  his  son  playing  at  a 
piano,  and  by  his  side  sat  a  queer  old  man  beat- 
ing time.  His  name  was  Spinoza;  he  was  a 
Portuguese  pianist,  and  wore  a  tall,  battered  silk 
hat  which  he  never  removed,  even  in  bed  —  so 
the  town  said. 

Racah's  father  played  no  dominoes  that  night. 
When  he  returned  to  his  house  his  wife  thought 
that  he  was  drunk.  He  told  his  story  in  agi- 
tated accents,  and  went  to  bed  a  mystified 
man.  He  ^understood  nothing,  and  while  his 
wife  calmly  slept  he  tortured  himself  with 
questions.  How  came  Racah  the  priest  to  be 
metamorphosed  into  Racah  the  pianist?  Then 
the  father  plucked  at  the  counterpane  like  a 
dying  fiddler.  .  .  . 

The  boy  showed  no  embarrassment  when  in- 
terrogated by  his  parents  the  next  day.  He 
said  he  did  not  desire  to  be  a  priest,  that  a 
pianist  could  make  more  money,  and  though  he 
hated  music,  there  were  harder  ways  of  earning 
one's  bread.  The  callousness  which  he  dis- 
played in  saying  all  this  deeply  pained  his  pious 
father.  His  son's  secret  nature  was  an  enigma 
to  him.  In  vain  he  endeavored  to  pierce  the 
meaning  of  the  youth's  eyes,  but  their  gaze  w^s 
enigmatic  and  veiled.  Racah  had  evct  ex- 
'99 


MELOMANIACS 

hibited  a  certain  aloofness  of  character,  and  as 
he  grew  older  this  trait  became  intensified;  the 
riddle  of  his  life  had  forced  itself  upon  him,  and 
he  vainly  wrestled  with  it.  Music  drew  him  as 
iron  filings  to  the  magnet,  or  as  the  tentacles  of 
an  octopus  carry  to  its  parrot-shaped  beak  its 
victim.  It  was  monstrous,  he  abhorred  it,  but 
could  no  more  resist  it  than  the  hasheesh  eater 
his  drug. 

So  in  the  fury  of  despair,  and  with  a  certain 
self-contempt,  he  strove  desperately  to  master 
the  technical  problems  of  his  art.  He  found  an 
abettor  in  the  person  of  the  Portuguese  pianist, 
to  whom  he  laid  bare  his  soul.  He  studied  every 
night,  and  since  he  need  no  longer  conceal  his 
secret,  he  began  practising  at  home.  .  .  . 

Racah  made  his  debut  when  he  was  twenty- 
one  years  old.  The  friend  of  the  family 
nearly  burst  a  blood-vessel  at  the  concert,  so 
enthusiastic  was  he  over  the  son  of  his  old 
crony.  Racah's  father  stayed  home  and  re- 
fused comfort.  His  son  was  a  pianist  and  not 
a  priest.  "  He  has  disgraced  himself  and  God 
will  not  reply  to  his  call  for  aid,"  and  he  placed 
his  hands  over  his  thin  eyebrows  and  wept. 
Racah's  mother  spoke :  "  Take  on  courage ;  the 
boy  plays  badly  —  there  is  yet  hope." 

The  good  man,  elated  by  the  idea,  went  forth 
to  play  dominoes  with  his  old  crony  at  the  inn 
where  the  two  yellow  cats  quarrel  on  the  dingy 
sign  over  the  door.  .  .  . 
200 


AN   INVOLUNTARY   INSURGENT 

Racah  sat  at  his  piano.  His  usually  smooth, 
high  forehead,  with  its  mop  of  heavy  black 
curls,  was  corrugated  with  little  puckering  lines. 
His  mouth  was  drawn  at  the  corners,  and  from 
time  to  time  he  sighed ;  great  groans,  too, 
burst  forth  from  him.  But  he  played,  played 
furiously,  and  he  smote  the  keyboard  as  if  he 
hated  it.  He  was  playing  the  B  minor  Sonata 
of  Chopin,  with  its  melting  second  movement 
—  so  moving  that  it  could  melt  the  heart  of  the 
right  sort  of  a  stone.  Yet  this  lovely  cantilena 
extorted  anger  from  the  young  pianist.  It  was 
true  that  he  played  badly,  but  not  so  badly  as 
his  mother  imagined.  His  very  hatred  of 
music  reverberated  in  his  playing  and  produced 
an  odd,  inverted,  temperamental  spark.  The 
transposition  of  an  emotion  into  a  lower  or 
higher  key  may  change  its  external  expression ; 
its  intensity  is  not  thereby  altered.  Racah 
hated  the  piano,  hated  Chopin,  hated  music; 
yet  potentially  Racah  was  a  great  pianist.  .  .  . 

The  years  fugued  by.  Racah  gradually  be- 
came known  as  an  artist  of  strange  power.  He 
had  studied  with  Liszt,  although  he  was  not  a 
favorite  of  the  master  nor  in  his  cenacle  of 
worshipping  pupils.  Racah  was  too  grim,  too 
much  in  earnest  for  the  worldly  frivolous  crew 
that  flitted  over  the  black  keys  at  Weimar. 
Occasionally  aroused  by  the  power  and  inten- 
sity of  the  young  man's  playing,  Liszt  would 
smile  satirically  and  say :  "  Thou  art  well  named 
201 


MELOMANIACS 

'  Raca,' "  and  then  all  the  Jews  in  the  class 
would  laugh  at  the  word-play.  But  it  gave 
Racah  little  concern  whether  they  admired  or 
loathed  him.  He  was  terribly  set  upon  playing 
the  piano  and  little  guessed  the  secret  of  his 
inner  struggle  —  the  secret  of  the  sad  spirit  that 
travailed  against  itself.  Oddly  enough  his  prog- 
ress was  rapid.  He  soon  outpointed  in  bril- 
liancy and  deftness  the  most  talented  of  the 
group  of  Liszt's  young  people,  and  once,  after 
playing  the  Mephisto  Walzer  with  abounding 
devilry,  Liszt  cried,  "  Bravo,  child,"  and  then 
muttered,  "  And  how  he  hates  it  all !  " 

Hypnotized  as  if  by  another's  will,  Racah 
studied  so  earnestly  that  he  became  a  public 
pianist.  He  had  success,  but  not  with  the 
great  public.  The  critics  called  him  cold,  ob- 
jective, a  pianist  made,  not  born.  But  musi- 
cians and  those  with  cultured  musical  palates 
discerned  a  certain  acid  quality  in  his  playing. 
His  gloomy  visage,  the  reflex  of  a  disordered 
soul,  caused  Baudelaire  to  declare  that  he  had 
added  one  more  shiver  to  his  extensive  psychi- 
cal collection.  In  Paris  the  Countess  X.  — 
charming,  titled  soubrette  —  said,  "  Have  you 
heard  Racah  play  the  piano  ?  He  is  a  damned 
soul  out  for  a  holiday." 

In  twenty-four  hours  this  mot  spread  the 
length  of  the  Boulevard,  and  all  Paris  went  to 
see  the  new  pianist.  .  .  . 

Success  did  not  brighten  the  glance  of  Racah. 
202 


AN   INVOLUNTARY   INSURGENT 

He  became  gloomier  as  he  grew  older,  and  a 
prominent  alienist  in  Paris  warned  him  to  travel 
or  else  —  and  he  pointed  to  his  forehead,  shrug- 
ging his  very  Gallic  shoulders.  Racah  imme- 
diately went  to  the  far  East.  .  .  . 

After  a  year's  wandering  up  and  down 
strange  and  curious  countries,  he  came  to  the 
chief  city  of  a  barbarous  province  ruled  by  a 
man  famous  for  his  ferocities  and  charming 
culture.  A  careful  education  in  Paris,  grafted 
upon  a  nature  cruel  to  the  core,  produced  the 
most  delicately  depraved  disposition  imaginable. 
This  Rajah  was  given  to  the  paradoxical.  He 
adored  Chopin  and  loved  to  roast  alive  tiny 
birds  on  dainty  golden  grills.  He  would  weep 
after  reading  de  Musset,  and  a  moment  later 
watch  with  infinite  satisfaction  the  spectacle  of 
two  wretched  women  dancing  on  heated  copper 
plates.  When  he  heard  of  Racah's  presence  in 
his  kingdom  he  summoned  the  pianist. 

Racah  obeyed  the  Rajah's  order.  To  his 
surprise  he  found  him  a  man  of  pleasing  mien 
and  address.  He  was  dressed  in  clothes  of 
English  cut,  and  possessed  a  concert  piano. 
Racah  bowed  to  him  on  entering  the  great  Hall 
of  the  Statues. 

"  Do  you  play  Chopin?  " 

"No,"  was  the  curt  reply.  The  potentate 
glanced  at  the  pianist,  and  then  dropped  his 
heavy  eyelids.  Racah  had  the  air  of  a  man 
bored  to  death. 

203 


MELOMANIACS 

•'I  entreat  you"  —  the  Rajah  had  winning 
accents  —  "play  me  something  of  Chopin.  I 
adore  Chopin." 

"  Your  Highness,  I  abominate  Chopin ;  I 
abominate  music.  I  have  taken  a  vow  never 
to  play  again  anything  of  that  vile  Polish  com- 
poser. But  I  may  play  for  you  instead  a 
Brahms  sonata.  The  great  one  in  F  minor  —  " 

"  Stop  a  moment !  You  distinctly  refuse  to 
play  me  a  Chopin  valse  or  mazurka?  " 

"  O  Villainy !  "  Racah  was  thoroughly 
aroused ;  "  I  swear  by  the  beard  of  your  silly 
prophet  that  I  will  not  play  Chopin,  nor  touch 
your  piano !  " 

The  Rajah  listened  with  a  sweet  forbearing 
smile.  Then  he  clapped  his  hands  twice  — 
thrice.  A  slave  entered.  To  him  the  Rajah 
spoke  quietly,  with  an  amused  expression,  and 
the  man  bowed  his  head.  Touching  the  pianist 
on  the  shoulder  he  said : 

"  Come  with  me."  Racah  followed.  The 
Rajah  burst  into  loud  laughter,  and  going  to 
the  piano  played  the  D  flat  Valse  of  Chopin  in 
a  facile  amateurish  fashion. 

Footsteps  were  heard ;  the  Rajah  stopped 
and  looked  up.  There  was  bright  frank  expec- 
tancy in  his  gaze  as  he  listened. 

Then  a  curtain  was  thrust  aside.     Racah  stag- 
gered in,  supported  by  the  attendant.     He  was 
white,   helpless,  fainting,  and  in  his  eyes  were 
the  shadows  of  infinite  regret. 
204 


AN   INVOLUNTARY   INSURGENT 

"  Do  play  some  Chopin,"  exclaimed  the 
Rajah,  gaily,  as  he  ran  his  fingers  over  the 
keyboard. 

The  pianist  groaned  as  the  slave  plucked  at 
his  arms  and  held  them  aloft.  The  Rajah  crit- 
ically viewed  the  hands  from  which  the  finger- 
tips were  missing,  and  then,  noting  the  remorseful 
anguish  in  the  gaze  of  the  other,  he  cried : 

"  Do  you  know,  I  really  believe  you  love 
music  despite  yourself!  " 


205 


HUNDING'S   WIFE 


CALCRAFT  was  very  noisy  in  his  morning 
humors,  and  the  banging  of  windows  caused 
his  wife  to  raise  a  curious  voice. 

From  the  breakfast-room  she  called,  "What 
is  the  matter  with  you  this  morning,  Cal? 
Didn't  Wagner  agree  with  you  last  night?  Or 
was  it  the—  ?" 

"Yes,  it  was  that"  replied  a  surly  voice. 

"  Have  you  hung  your  wrists  out  of  the  win- 
dow and  given  them  a  good  airing?" 

"  I  have."     Calcraft  laughed  rudely. 

"Then  for  goodness'  sake  hurry  in  to  break- 
fast, if  you  are  cooled  off;  the  eggs  are."  Mrs. 
Calcraft  sighed.  It  was  their  usual  conversation  ; 
thus  the  day  began.  .  .  .  Her  husband  entered 
the  room.  Of  a  thick-set,  almost  burly  figure, 
Calcraft  was  an  enormously  muscular  man.  His 
broad  shoulders,  powerful  brow,  black,  deep-set 
eyes,  inky  black  hair  and  beard  —  the  beard 
worn  in  Hunding  fashion — made  up  a  person- 
ality slightly  forbidding.  The  suppleness  of  his 
gait,  the  ready  laughter  and  bright  expression 
of  the  eye,  soon  corrected  this  aversion ;  the 
critic  was  liked,  and  admired,  —  after  the  criti- 
206 


HUNDING'S   WIFE 

cal  fashion.  Good  temper  and  wit  in  the  even- 
ing ever  are.  The  recurring  matrimonial  duel 
over  the  morning  teacups  awoke  him  for  the 
day's  labors ;  he  actually  profited  from  the  ver- 
bal exercising  of  Tekla's  temper. 

"  After  what  you  promised  !  "  she  inquired  in 
her  most  reproachful  manner.  Calcraft  smiled. 
"  And  your  story  in  the  Watchman.  Now,  Cal, 
are  n't  you  a  bit  ashamed  ?  We  have  heard 
much  worse  Siegmunds." 

"  Not  much,"  he  grunted,  swallowing  a  huge 
cup  of  tea  at  a  draught. 

"Yet  you  roasted  the  poor  boy  as  you  would 
never  dare  roast  a  singer  with  any  sort  of  repu- 
tation. Hinweg's  Siegmund  was  —  " 

"  Like  himself,  too  thin,"  said  her  husband ; 
"  fancy  a  thm  Siegmund  !  Besides,  the  fellow 
does  n't  know  how  to  sing,  and  he  can't  act." 

"  But  his  voice ;  it  has  all  the  freshness  of 
youth."  .  .  .  She  left  the  table,  and  lounging  to 
the  window  regarded  the  streets  and  sky  with  a 
contemptuous  expression.  Tekla  was  very  tall, 
rather  heavy,  though  well  built,  with  hair  and 
skin  of  royal  blond.  She  looked  as  Scandi- 
navian as  her  name. 

"  My  dear  Tek,  you  are  always  discovering 
genius.  You  remember  that  young  pianist  with 
a  touch  like  old  gold?  Or  was  it  smothered 
onions?  I've  forgotten  which."  He  grinned  as 
he  spilled  part  of  an  egg  on  his  beard. 

She  faced  him.  "  If  the  critics  don't  encour- 
207 


MELOMANIACS 

age  youthful  talent,  who  will?  But  they  never 
do."  Her  voice  took  on  flat  tones :  "  I  wonder, 
Cal,  that  you  are  not  easier  as  you  grow  older, 
for  you  certainly  do  not  improve  with  age,  your- 
self. Do  you  know  what  time  you  got  in  this 
morning?  " 

"  No,  and  I  don't  want  to  know."  The  man's 
demeanor  was  harsh ;  there  were  deep  circles 
under  his  large  eyes ;  his  cheeks  were  slightly 
puffed,  and,  as  he  opened  his  newspaper,  he 
looked  like  one  who  had  not  slept. 

Tekla  sighed  again  and  stirred  uneasily  about 
the  room.  "  For  heaven's  sake,  girl,  sit  down 
and  read  —  or,  something !  " 

"  I  don't  wonder  your  nerves  are  bad  this 
morning,"  she  sweetly  responded ;  "  the  only 
wonder  is  that  you  can  keep  up  such  a  wearing 
pace  and  do  your  work  so  well." 

"  This  is  n't  such  a  roast,"  said  Calcraft  irrele- 
vantly. He  had  heard  these  same  remarks  every 
morning  for  more  than  ten  years.  "  Last  night," 
he  proceeded,  "  the  new  tenor  —  " 

"  Oh !  Cal,  please  don't  read  your  criticism 
aloud.  I  saw  it  hours  ago,"  she  implored, — 
her  slightly  protuberant,  blue  eyes  were  fixed 
steadily  upon  him. 

"Why,  what  time  is  it?" 

"  Long  past  twelve." 

"  Phew !  And  I  promised  to  be  at  the  office 
at  midday !  Where 's  my  coat,  my  overshoes  ! 
Magda  !  Magda  !  Hang  that  girl,  she  's  always 
208 


HUNDING'S  WIFE 

gadding  with  the  elevator  boy  when  I  need  her." 
Calcraft  bustled  about  the  room,  rushed  to  his 
bedchamber,  to  the  hall,  and  reappeared  dressed 
for  his  trip  down-town. 

"  Cal,  I  forgot  to  say  that  Hinweg  called  this 
morning  and  left  his  card.  Foreigners  are  so 
polite  in  these  matters.  He  left  cards  for  both 
of  us." 

"  He  did,  did  he?  "  answered  Calcraft  grimly. 
"  Well,  that  won't  make  him  sing  Wagner  any 
better  in  the  Watchman.  And  as  a  matter  of 
politeness  —  if  you  will  quote  the  polite  ways  of 
foreigners  —  he  should  have  left  cards  here  be- 
fore he  sang.  What  name  is  on  his  pasteboard  ? 
I  Ve  heard  that  his  real  one  is  something  like 
Whizzina.  He's  a  Croat,  I  believe." 

She  indifferently  took  some  cards  from  a 
bronze  salver  and  read  aloud :  "  Adalbert  Viz- 
nina,  Tenor,  Royal  Opera,  Prague." 

"  So-ho !  a  Bohemian.  Well,  it 's  all  the 
same.  Croatia  is  Czech.  Your  Mr.  Viznina 
can't  sing  a  little  bit.  That  vile,  throaty  Ger- 
man tone-production  of  his  —  but  why  in  thun- 
der does  he  call  himself  Hinweg?  Viznina  is  a 
far  prettier  name.  Perhaps  Viznina  is  Hinweg 
in  German  !  " 

Tekla  shrugged  her  strong  shoulders  and 
gazed  outdoors.  "  What  a  wretched  day,  and 
I  have  so  much  to  do.  Now,  Cal,  do  come  home 
early.  We  dine  at  seven.  No  opera  to-night, 
you  know.  And  come  back  soon.  We  never 
M  209 


MELOMANIACS 

spend  a  night  home  alone  together.  What  if 
this  young  man  should  call  again?" 

"  Don't  stop  him,"  her  husband  answered  in 
good-humored  accents  as  he  bade  her  good-by. 
He  was  prepared  to  meet  the  world  now,  and  in 
a  jolly  mood.  "  Tell  your  Hinweg  or  Whiz- 
zerina,  or  whatever  his  name  is,  to  sing  Tristan 
better  to-morrow  night  than  he  did  Siegmund, 
or  there  will  be  more  trouble."  He  skipped  off. 
She  called  after  him : 

"  Cal,  remember  your  promise  !  " 

"  Not  a  drop,"  and  the  double  slamming  of 
the  street  doors  set  Tekla  humming  Hunding's 
motif  in  "  Die  Walkure." 


II 

Her  morning-room  was  hung  with  Japanese 
umbrellas  and,  despite  the  warning  of  friends, 
peacock-feathers  hid  from  view  the  walls ;  this 
comfortable  little  boudoir,  with  its  rugs,  cozy 
Turkish  corner,  and  dull  sweet  odors  was  origi- 
nally a  hall-bedroom;  Tekla's  ingenuity  and 
desperate  desire  for  the  unconventional  had 
converted  the  apartment  into  the  prettiest  of 
the  Calcraft  flat.  Here,  and  here  alone,  was 
the  imperious  critic  forbidden  pipe  or  cigar. 
Cigarettes  he  abhorred,  therefore  Tekla  allowed 
her  favorites  to  use  them.  She  became  sick  if 
she  merely  lighted  one ;  so  her  pet  attitude  was 
to  loll  on  a  crimson  divan  and  hold  a  freshly 

210 


HUNDING'S   WIFE 

rolled  Russian  cigarette  in  her  big  fingers  cov- 
ered with  opals.  Her  male  friends  said  that  she 
reminded  them  of  a  Prankish  slave  in  a  harem ; 
she  needed  nothing  more  but  Turkish-trousers, 
hoop  ear-rings,  and  the  sad,  resigned  smile  of 
the  captive  maiden.  .  .  . 

It  was  half-past  five  in  the  dark,  stormy  after- 
noon when  the  electric  buzzer  warned  Tekla  of 
visitors.  A  man  was  ushered  into  the  drawing- 
room  and  Magda,  in  correct  cap  and  apron, 
fetched  his  card  to  her  mistress. 

"  Show  him  in  here,  Magda,  and  Magda"  — 
there  were  languid  intonations  in  the  voice  of 
this  vigorous  woman  —  "  light  that  lamp  with 
the  green  globe." 

In  the  fast  disappearing  daylight  Tekla  peeped 
at  herself  in  a  rhomboid  crystal  mirror,  saw  her 
house  frock,  voluminously  becoming,  and  her 
golden  hair  set  well  over  her  brow :  she  believed 
in  the  eternal  charm  of  fluffiness.  After  the  lamp 
was  ready  the  visitor  came  in.  He  was  a  very 
tall,  rather  emaciated  looking,  blond  young 
man,  whose  springy  step  and  clear  eyes  belied 
any  hint  of  ill-health.  As  he  entered,  the  gaze 
of  the  two  met  in  the  veiled  light  of  the  green- 
globed  lamp,  and  the  fire  flickered  high  on  the 
gas-log  hearth.  He  hesitated  with  engaging 
modesty;  then  Tekla,  holding  out  a  hand, 
moved  in  a  large  curved  way,  to  meet  him. 

"  Delighted,  I  am  sure,  my  dear  Herr  Viznina, 
to  know  you  !  How  good  of  you  to  call  on  such 

211 


MELOMANIACS 

a  day,  to  see  a  bored  woman."  He  bowed, 
smiled,  showing  strong  white  teeth  under  his 
boyish  moustache,  and  sat  down  on  the  low  seat 
near  her  divan. 

"  Madame,"  he  answered  in  Slavic-accented 
English,  "  I  am  happy  to  make  your  acquaint- 
ance and  hope  to  meet  your  husband,  M.  Cal- 
craft."  She  turned  her  head  impatiently.  "  I 
only  hope  that  his  notice  will  not  discourage  you 
for  Tristan  to-morrow  night.  But  Mr.  Calcraft 
is  really  a  kind  man,  even  if  he  seems  severe  in 
print.  I  tell  him  that  he  always  hangs  his  riddle 
outside  the  door,  as  the  Irish  say,  which  means, 
my  dear  Herr  Viznina,  that  he  is  kinder  abroad 
than  at  home."  Seeing  the  slightly  bewildered 
look  of  her  companion  she  added,  "  And  so 
you  did  n't  mind  his  being  cross  this  morning, 
did  you  ?  "  The  tenor  hesitated. 

"  But  he  was  not  cross  at  all,  Madame ;  I 
thought  him  very  kind ;  for  my  throat  was 
rough  —  you  know  what  I  mean!  sick,  sore; 
yes,  it  was  a  real  sore  throat  that  I  had  last 
night."  It  was  her  turn  to  look  puzzled. 

"  Not  cross?  Mr.  Calcraft  not  severe?  Dear 
me,  what  do  you  call  it,  then  ?  " 

"  He  said  I  was  a  great  artist,"  rejoined  the 
other. 

Tekla  burst  into  laughter  and  apologized. 
"  You  have  read  the  wrong  paper,  Herr  Viznina, 
and  I  am  glad  you  have.  And  now  you  must 
promise  to  stay  and  dine  with  us  to-night.  No, 

212 


HUNDING'S  WIFE 

you  sha'n't  refuse  !  We  are  quite  alone  and  you 
must  know  that,  as  old  married  folks,  we  are 
always  delighted  to  have  some  one  with  us.  I 
told  Mr.  Calcraft  only  this  morning  that  we 
should  go  out  to  dinner  if  he  came  home  alone. 
Don't  ask  for  which  paper  he  writes  until  you 
meet  him.  Nothing  in  the  world  could  make 
me  tell  you."  She  was  all  frankness  and  anima- 
tion, and  her  guest  told  himself  that  she  was  of 
a  great  charm.  They  fell  into  professional  talk. 
She  spoke  of  her  husband's  talents ;  how  he  had 
played  the  viola  in  quartet  parties ;  of  his  suc- 
cessful lecture,  "  The  Inutility  of  Wagner,"  and 
his  preferences  in  music. 

"  But  if  he  does  not  care  for  Wagner  he  must 
be  a  Brahmsianer."  The  last  word  came  out 
with  true  Viennese  unction. 

"  He  now  despises  Brahms,  and  thinks  that 
he  had  nothing  to  say.  Wagner  is,  for  him,  a 
decadent,  like  Liszt  and  the  rest." 

"  But  the  classics,  Madame,  what  does  M. 
Calcraft  write  of  the  classics?"  demanded  the 
singer. 

"That  they  are  all  used-up  romantics;  that 
every  musical  dog  has  his  day,  and  the  latest  com- 
poser is  always  the  best ;  he  voices  his  genera- 
tion. We  liked  Brahms  yesterday;  to-day  we 
are  all  for  Richard  Strauss  and  the  symphonic 
poem." 

"  We  ? "     A  quizzical  inflection  was   in  the 
young  man's  voice.     She  stared  at  him. 
213 


MELOMANIACS 

"  I  get  into  the  habit  of  using  the  editorial 
'  we.'  I  do  it  for  fun ;  I  by  no  means  always 
agree  with  my  husband.  Besides,  I  often  write 
criticism  for  Mr.  Calcraft  when  he  is  away  —  or 
lecturing."  She  paused. 

"  Then,"  he  exclaimed,  and  he  gazed  at  her 
tenderly,  "  if  you  like  my  Tristan  you  may,  per- 
haps, write  a  nice  little  notice.  Oh,  how  lovely 
that  would  be  !  " 

The  artist  in  him  stirred  the  strings  of  her 
maternal  lyre.  "  Yes,  it  would  be  lovely,  but 
Mr.  Calcraft  is  not  lecturing  to-morrow  night, 
and  I  hope  that  —  " 

The  two  street  doors  banged  out  a  half  bar 
of  the  Hunding  rhythm.  Calcraft  was  heard  in 
the  hall.  A  minute  later  he  stood  in  the  door 
of  his  wife's  retreat ;  there  was  a  frown  upon  his 
brow  when  he  saw  her  companion,  but  it  van- 
ished as  the  two  men  shook  hands.  Viznina 
asked  him  if  he  spoke  German ;  Magda  beck- 
oned to  Mrs.  Calcraft  from  the  middle  of  the 
drawing-room.  When  Tekla  returned,  after  giv- 
ing final  instructions  for  dinner,  she  found  critic 
and  tenor  in  heated  argument  over  Jean  de 
Reszke's  interpretation  of  the  elder  Sieg- 
fried. .  .  . 

The  dining-room  was  a  small  salon,  oak- 
panelled,  and  with  low  ceilings.  A  few  prints 
of  religious  subjects,  after  the  early  Italian 
masters,  hung  on  the  walls.  The  buffet  was 
pure  renaissance.  Comfortable  was  the  room, 
214 


HUNDING'S   WIFE 

tvhile  the  oval  table  and  soft  leather  chairs  were 
provocative  of  appetite  and  conversation. 

"  Very  un-American,"  remarked  the  singer, 
as  he  ate  his  crab  bisque. 

"  How  many  American  houses  have  you  been 
in  ?  "  irritably  asked  Calcraft.  Viznina  admitted 
that  he  was  enjoying  his  debut. 

"  I  thought  so."  Calcraft  was  now  as  bland 
as  a  May  morning,  and  his  eyes  sparkled.  His 
wife  watched  Magda  serve  the  fish  and  fowl,  and 
her  husband  insisted  upon  champagne  as  the 
sole  wine.  The  tenor  looked  surprised,  and  then 
amused. 

"Americans  love  champagne,  do  they  not? 
I  never  touch  it." 

"Would  you  rather  have  claret  or  beer?" 
hastily  inquired  the  host. 

"  Neither ;  I  must  sing  Tristan  to-morrow." 

"  You  singers  are  saints  on  the  stage."  The 
critic  laughed.  "  I  am  old-fashioned  enough  to 
believe  that  good  wine  or  beer  will  never  hurt 
the  throat.  Now  there  was  Karl  Formes,  and 
Niemann  the  great  tenor  —  " 

Tekla  interrupted.  "  My  dear  Cal,  pray  don't 
get  on  one  of  your  interminable  liquid  talks. 
Herr  Viznina  does  not  care  to  drink,  whether  he 
is  singing  or  not.  I  told  him,  too,  that  we  al- 
ways liked  a  guest  at  dinner,  for  we  are  such  old 
married  people." 

Calcraft  watched  the  pair  facing  one  another. 
He  was  in  a  disagreeable  humor  because  of  his 
215 


MELOMANIACS 

wife's  allusion  to  visitors ;  he  liked  to  bear  the 
major  burden  of  conversation,  even  when  they 
were  alone.  If  Tekla  began  he  had  to  sit  still 
and  drink  —  there  was  no  other  alternative.  She 
asked  Viznina  where  he  was  born,  where  he  had 
studied,  and  why  he  had  changed  his  name.  The 
answers  were  those  of  a  man  in  love  with  his  art. 
Hinweg,  he  explained,  was  his  mother's  name, 
and  assumed  because  of  the  anti-Slav  prejudice 
existing  in  Vienna. 

Calcraft  broke  in.  "  You  say  you  are  Bohe- 
mian, Herr  Viznina?  You  are  really  as  Swedish 
looking  as  Mrs.  Calcraft." 

"  What  a  Sieglinde  she  would  make,  with  her 
beautiful  blond  complexion  and  grand  figure," 
returned  the  tenor  with  enthusiasm. 

Tekla  sighed  for  the  third  time  that  day.  She 
burned  to  become  a  Wagner  singer.  Had  she 
not  been  a  successful  elocutionist  in  Minnesota? 
How  this  talented  young  artist  appreciated  her 
gift,  intuitively  understood  her  ambition  !  Cal- 
craft noted  that  they  looked  enough  alike  to 
be  brother  and  sister;  tall,  fair  and  blue-eyed 
as  they  were.  He  laughed  at  the  conceit. 

''You  are  both  of  the  Wolfing  tribe,"  he 
roared  and  ordered  beer  of  Magda.  "  I  always 
drink  dark  beer  after  champagne,  it  settles  the 
effervesence,"  he  argued. 

"  You  can  always  drink  beer,  before  and  after 
anything,  Cal,"  said  his  wife  in  her  sarcastic, 
vibrant  voice. 

216 


HUNDING'S   WIFE 

The  guest  was  hopelessly  bored,  but,  being  a 
man  of  will,  he  concentrated  his  attention  upon 
himself  and  grew  more  resigned.  He  did  not 
pretend  to  understand  this  rough-spoken  critic, 
with  his  hatred  of  Wagner  and  his  contradictory 
Teutonic  tastes.  Tekla  with  eyes  full  of  beam- 
ing implications  spoke : 

"  I  should  tell  you,  Cal,  that  Herr  Viznina 
does  not  know,  or  else  has  forgotten,  which 
paper  you  write  for,  and  I  let  him  guess.  He 
thinks  you  praised  his  Siegmund." 

"  Saturday  morning  after  the  Tristan  perform- 
ance he  will  know  for  sure,"  answered  the  critic 
sardonically,  drinking  a  stein  of  Wiirzburger. 

"  You  rude  man  !  of  course  he  will  know,  and 
he  will  love  you  afterwards."  If  Calcraft  had 
been  near  enough  she  would  have  tapped  him 
playfully  on  the  arm. 

"  Ah !  Madame,  what  would  we  poor  artists 
do  if  it  were  not  for  the  ladies,  the  kind,  sweet 
American  ladies?" 

"  That 's  just  it,"  cried  Calcraft. 

"  What  an  idea,  Warrington  Calcraft !  "  Tekla 
was  thoroughly  indignant.  "  Never  since  I  Ve 
known  you  have  I  attempted  to  influence  you." 

"  You  could  n't,"  said  he. 

"  No,  not  even  for  poor  Florence  Deliba,  who 
entered  into  a  suicidal  marriage  after  she  read 
your  brutal  notice  of  her  debut." 

"  And  a  good  thing  it  was  for  the  operatic 
stage,"  chuckled  the  man. 
217 


MELOMANIACS 

"  If  I  write  the  notices  of  a  few  minor  concerts 
I  always  try  to  follow  your  notions."  She  was 
out  of  breath  and  Viznina  admired  her  without 
reserve. 

Calcraft  was  becoming  slow  of  utterance. 
"  You  women  are  wonders  when  it  comes  to 
criticism."  The  air  darkened.  Viznina  looked 
unhappy  and  Mrs.  Calcraft  rose :  "  Come,  let  us 
drink  our  coffee  in  my  den,  Herr  Viznina,  I  hate 
shop  talk."  She  swept  out  of  the  room  and  the 
tenor,  after  a  dismissal  from  the  drowsy  critic, 
joined  her. 

"  My  headstrong  husband  does  n't  care  for 
coffee,"  she  confessed,  apologetically.  "  Sit 
down  where  you  were  before.  The  soft  light  is 
so  becoming  to  you.  Do  you  know  that  you 
have  an  ideal  face  for  Tristan,  and  this  green 
recalls  the  forest  scene.  Now  just  fancy  that 
I  am  Isolde  and  tell  me  what  your  thoughts  and 
feelings  are  in  the  second  act." 

Sitting  beside  her  on  the  couch  and  watching 
her  long  fingers  milky-green  with  opals,  Viznina 
spoke  only  of  himself,  with  all  the  meticulous 
delicacy  of  a  Wagnerian  tenor,  and  was  thor- 
oughly happy  playing  the  part  of  a  tame 
Tristan. 

Ill 

Tristan  and  Isolde  were  in  the  middle  of  their 
passionate  symphony  of  flesh  and  spirit,  when 
Tekla  was  ushered  to  the  regular  Calcraft  seats 
218 


HUNDING'S   WIFE 

in  the  opera  house.  Her  husband,  who  had 
been  in  the  city  all  day,  returned  to  the  house 
late  for  dinner,  through  which  meal  he  dozed. 
He  then  fell  asleep  on  a  couch.  After  dressing 
and  waiting  wearily  until  nearly  nine  o'clock 
she  had  a  carriage  called  and  went  to  the  opera 
alone ;  not  forgetting,  however,  to  bid  Magda 
leave  a  case  of  imported  beer  where  Mr.  Calcraft 
could  find  it  when  he  awoke.  .  .  . 

Rather  flustered,  she  watched  the  stage  with 
anxious  eyes.  Brangaene  —  an  ugly,  large 
person  in  a  terra-cotta  cheese-cloth  peplum  — 
had  already  warned  the  desperate  pair  beneath 
the  trees  that  dawn  and  danger  were  at  hand. 
But  the  lovers  sang  of  death  and  love,  and  love 
and  death  ;  and  their  sweet,  despairing  imagery 
floated  on  the  oily  waves  of  orchestral  passion. 
The  eloquence  became  burning ;  Tekla  had  for- 
gotten her  tribulations,  Calcraft  and  time  and 
space,  when  King  Marke  entered  accompanied 
by  the  blustering  busy-body  Melot. 

"  Oh,  these  tiresome  husbands !  "  she  thought, 
and  not  listening  to  the  noble  music  of  the  de- 
ceived man,  she  presently  slipped  into  the  lobby. 
The  place  was  deserted,  and  as  she  paced  up  and 
down,  she  recollected  with  pleasure  the  boyish- 
looking  Tristan.  How  handsome  he  was  !  and 
how  his  voice,  husky  in  "  Die  Walkiire,"  now 
rang  out  thrillingly !  There !  —  she  heard  it 
again,  muffled  indeed  by  the  thick  doors,  but 
pure,  free,  full  of  youthful  fire.  What  a  Tristan  ! 
219 


MELOMANIACS 

And  he  had  looked  at  her  the  night  before  with 
the  same  ardor  !  A  pity  it  was,  that  she,  Tekla 
Calcraft,  born  Tekla  Bjornsen,  had  not  studied 
for  the  opera;  had  not  sung  Sieglinde  to 
his  Siegmund ;  was  not  singing  at  this  moment 
with  such  a  Tristan  in  the  place  of  that  fat 
Malska,  old  enough  to  be  his  mother !  and  in- 
stead of  being  the  wife  of  an  indifferent  man 
who  —  ... 

The  act  was  over,  the  applause  noisy.  People 
began  to  press  out  through  the  swinging  doors, 
and  Tekla,  not  caring  to  be  caught  alone,  walked 
around  to  the  stage  entrance.  She  met  the 
Director,  who  made  much  of  her  and  took  her 
through  the  archway  presided  over  by  a  hoarse- 
voiced  keeper. 

In  his  dressing-room  Tristan  welcomed  her 
with  outstretched  hands. 

"  You  are  so  good,"  and  then  quickly  pointed 
to  his  throat. 

"  And  you  were  superb,"  she  responded 
unaffectedly. 

"  Your  husband,  is  he  here  ?  "  he  asked,  for- 
getting his  throat. 

"  He  is  not  here  yet ;  he  is  detained  down- 
town." 

"But  he  will  write  the  critique?"  inquired 
Viznina  with  startled  eyes.  Tekla  did  not  at 
first  answer  him. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  replied  thickly.  He 
seized  her  hands. 

220 


HUNDING'S  WIFE 

"  Oh,  you  will  like  my  third  act !  I  am  there 
at  my  best,"  he  declared  with  all  the  muted 
vanity  of  a  modest  man.  She  was  slightly 
disappointed. 

"  I  like  everything  you  do,"  she  slowly 
admitted.  Viznina  kissed  her  wrists.  She  re- 
garded him  with  maternal  eyes. 

As  Tekla  mounted  the  stairs  her  mind  was 
made  up.  Fatigued  as  she  was  by  the  exciting 
events  of  the  past  twenty-four  hours,  she 
reached  the  press-room  in  a  buoyant  mood.  It 
was  smoky  with  the  cigars  and  cigarettes  of  a 
half  dozen  men  who  invented  ideas,  pleasant 
and  otherwise,  about  the  opera,  for  the  morning 
papers.  Mrs.  Calcraft  was  greeted  with  warmth ; 
like  her  husband  she  was  a  favorite,  though  an 
old  man  grumbled  out  something  about  women 
abusing  their  privilege.  Jetsam,  one  of  her 
devoted  body-guard,  gave  her  a  seat,  pen  and 
paper,  and  told  her  to  go  ahead ;  there  were 
plenty  of  messenger  boys  in  waiting.  It  was 
not  the  first  time  Tekla  had  been  in  the  press- 
room, the  room  of  the  dreaded  critical  chain- 
gang,  as  Cal  had  named  it.  All  asked  after 
Calcraft. 

"  He  has  gone  to  the  Symphony  Concert," 
replied  Tekla  unblushingly,  and  young  Jetsam 
winked  his  thin  eyes  at  the  rest.  Feeling  en- 
couraged at  this  he  persisted  : 

"  I  thought  Gardner  was  '  doing '  the  concert 
for  Cal?" 

221 


MELOMANIACS 

"  Oh  !  you  know  Cal !  "  she  put  a  pen  in  her 
mouth,  "  he  hates  Wagner ;  perhaps  he  thinks 
Mr.  Gardner  needs  company  once  in  a  while." 

"  Perhaps  he  does,"  gravely  soliloquized 
Jetsam. 

"  How  many  performances  of  Tristan  does 
this  make,  Mr.  Jetsam?  " 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know — I  am  never  much 
on  statistics." 

When  she  was  told  the  correct  number  the 
scratching  of  pens  went  on  and  the  smoke  grew 
denser.  Messenger  after  messenger  was  dis- 
missed with  precious  critical  freightage,  and 
soon  Tekla  had  finished,  envious  eyes  watching 
her  all  the  while.  Every  man  there  wished  that 
his  wife  were  as  clever  and  helpful  as  Mrs. 
C  ale  raft. 

Driving  home  she  forgot  all  about  the  shabby 
cab  having  memories  only  for  the  garden  scene, 
its  musical  enchantments.  The  spell  of  them 
lay  thick  upon  her  as  she  was  undressed  by 
Magda.  When  the  lights  were  out,  she  asked 
Magda  if  Mr.  Calcraft  still  slept. 

"  No,  ma'am ;  after  drinking  the  beer  he  went 
out." 

"Oh!  he  went  out  after  all,  did  he?"  re- 
sponded Tekla  in  a  sleepy  voice  and  immedi- 
ately passed  into  happy  dreams.  .  .  . 

It  was  sullen  afternoon  when  she  stood  in 
her  room  regarding  with  instant  joy  a  large 
bunch  of  roses.  Calcraft  came  in  without 
222 


HUNDING'S   WIFE 

slamming  the  doors  as  usual.  She  turned  a 
shining  face  to  him.  He  looked  factitiously 
fresh,  with  a  Turkish  bath  freshness,  his  linen 
was  spotless,  and  in  his  hand  he  held  a 
newspaper. 

"  That  was  a  fine,  dark  potion  you  brewed  for 
me  last  night,  Sieglinde  !  "  he  mournfully  began. 
"  No  wonder  your  Tristan  sang  so  well  in  the 
Watchman  this  morning !  "  The  youthful  can- 
dors of  her  Swedish  blue  eyes  with  their  tinted 
lashes  evoked  his  sulky  admiration. 

"  I  knew,  Cal,  that  you  would  do  the  young 
man  justice  for  his  magnificent  performance," 
she  replied,  her  cheeks  beginning  to  echo  the 
hues  of  the  roses  she  held  ;  her  fingers  had  just 
closed  over  an  angular  bit  of  paper  buried  in 
the  heart  of  the  flowers.  .  .  . 

For  answer,  Calcraft  ironically  hummed  the 
Pity  motif  from  "  Die  Walkiire  "  and  went  out  of 
the  house,  the  doors  closing  gently  after  him  to 
the  familiar  rhythm  of  that  sadly  duped  warrior, 
Hunding. 


223 


THE   CORRIDOR   OF  TIME 

Ah!  to  see  behind  me  no  longer  on  the  Lake  of 
Eternity  the  implacable  Wake  of  Time. 

—  EPHRAIM  MIKAEL. 

WHEN  Cintras  was  twenty  he  planned  an 
appeal  to  eternity.  He  knew  "  fimaux  et 
Camees "  as  pious  folk  their  Bible ;  he  felt 
that  naught  endured  but  art.  So  he  became  a 
pagan,  and  sought  for  firmness  and  delicacy  in 
the  texture,  while  aiming  to  fill  his  verse 
with  the  fire  of  Swinburne,  the  subtlety  of 
Rossetti  and  the  great,  clear  day-flame  of 
Gautier.  A  well-nigh  impossible  ideal;  yet 
he  cherished  it  for  twice  ten  years,  and  at 
forty  had  forsworn  poetry  for  prose.  .  .  . 

Then  he  read  the  masters  of  that  "  other 
harmony  of  prose "  until  he  dreamed  of  long, 
sweeping  phrases,  drumming  with  melody, 
cadences  like  the  humming  of  slow,  uplifting 
walls  of  water  tumbling  on  sullen  strands.  He 
knew  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  and  repeated  with 
unction :  "  Now  since  these  dead  bones  have 
already  outlasted  the  living  ones  of  Methusaleh, 
and  in  a  yard  under  ground,  and  thin  walls  of 
clay,  outworn  all  the  strong  and  spacious 
224 


THE   CORRIDOR  OF  TIME 

buildings  above  it;  and  quietly  rested  under 
the  drums  and  tramplings  of  three  conquests; 
what  prince  can  promise  such  diuturnity  unto 
his  relicks."  .  .  .  He  wondered  if  Milton,  De 
Quincey,  Walter  Pater  or  even  Jeremy  Taylor 
had  made  such  sustained  music.  He  marvelled 
at  the  lofty  structures  of  old  seventeenth  century 
prose-men,  and  compared  them  with  the  chippy 
staccato  of  the  modern  perky  style,  its  smug 
smartness,  its  eternal  chattering  gallop.  He 
absorbed  the  quiet  prose  of  Addison  and  Steele 
and  swore  it  tasted  like  dry  sherry.  Swift,  he 
found  brilliantly  hard,  often  mannered ;  and  he 
loved  Dr.  Goldsmith,  so  bland,  loquacious, 
welcoming.  In  Fielding's  sentences  he  heard 
the  clatter  of  oaths;  and  when  bored  by  the 
pulpy  magnificence  of  Pater's  harmonies  went 
back  to  Bunyan  with  his  stern,  straightforward 
way.  For  Macaulay  and  his  multitudinous  prose, 
Cintras  conceived  a  special  abhorrence,  but 
could  quote  for  you  with  unfailing  diction  Sir 
William  Temple's  "  Use  of  Poetry  and  Music," 
and  its  sweet  coda :  "  When  all  is  done,  human 
life  is  at  the  greatest  and  the  best,  but  like  a 
froward  child  that  must  be  played  with  and 
humored  to  keep  it  quiet  till  it  falls  asleep, 
and  then  the  care  is  over." 

Cintras  had  become  enamoured  with  the  Eng- 
lish language,  and  emptied  it  into  his  eyes  frorr 
Chaucer  to  Stevenson.  He  most  affected  Charles 
Lamb  and  Laurence  Sterne ;  he  also  loved  the 

'5  22f 


MELOMANIACS 

Bible  for  its  canorous  prose,  and  on  hot  after- 
noons as  the  boys  lolled  about  his  room,  he 
thundered  forth  bits  of  Job  and  the  Psalms. 
Cintras  was  greatly  beloved  by  the  gang, 
though  it  was  generally  conceded  that  he  had 
as  yet  done  nothing.  This  is  the  way  Berkeley 
put  it,  down  at  Che"rierre's,  where  they  often  met 
to  say  obvious  things  in  American-French.  .  .  . 

"  You  see  boys,  if  Cintras  had  the  stuff  in  him 
he  would  have  turned  out  something  by  this 
time.  He 's  a  bad  poet  —  what,  have  n't  you 
ever  read  any  of  his  verse? — and  now  he  's  gone 
daft  on  artistic  prose.  Artistic  rubbish  !  Who 
the  devil  cares  for  chiselled  prose  nowadays? 
In  the  days  when  link-boys  and  sedan  chairs 
helped  home  a  jag  they  had  the  time  to  speak 
good  English.  But  now !  Good  Lord  !  With 
typewriters  cutting  your  phrases  into  angular 
fragments,  with  the  very  soil  at  your  heels 
saturated  with  slang,  what  hope  in  an  age  of 
hurry  has  a  fellow  to  think  of  the  cadence  ?  I 
honestly  believe  Stevenson  was  having  fun  when 
he  wrote  that  essay  of  his  on  the  technical 
elements  of  style.  It 's  a  puzzle  picture  and  no 
more  to  be  deciphered  than  a  Bach  fugue." 

"  When  Bill  Berkeley  gets  the  flow  on,  he  's 
worse  than  Cintras  with  his  variable  vowels. 
Say,  Bill,  I  think  you  're  jealous  of  old  Pop 
Cintras."  It  was  Sammy  Hodson,  a  newspaper 
man,  who  spoke,  and  as  he  wrote  on  space  he 
was  usually  the  cashier  of  the  crowd.  .  .  . 
226 


THE    CORRIDOR   OF   TIME 

Cherierre's  is  on  University  Place,  and  the 
spot  where  the  artistic  set  —  Berkeley,  Hodson, 
Pauch,  the  sculptor,  and  Cintras  —  happened  to 
be  hanging  about  just  then.  The  musician  of 
the  circle  was  a  tall  thin  young  man  named 
Merville.  It  was  said  that  he  had  written  a 
symphony;  and  one  night  they  all  got  drunk 
when  the  last  movement  was  finished,  though 
not  a  soul  had  heard  a  note.  Every  one  believed 
Merville  would  do  big  things  some  day. 

Cintras  entered.  He  was  hopelessly  unin- 
teresting looking  and  wore  a  beard-  Berkeley 
swore  that  if  he  shaved  he  would  be  sent  to 
prison  ;  but  Cintras  pleaded  economy,  a  delicate 
throat,  also  the  fact  that  his  nose  was  stubby. 
But  set  him  to  talking  about  the  beauties 
of  English  prose,  and  his  eyes  blazed  with  a 
green  fire.  The  conversation  turned  on  good 
things  to  drink;  wine  at  twenty-five  cents  a 
litre  was  ordered,  and  the  chatter  began.  .  .  . 

"  It  seems  to  me,  Berkeley,"  Cintras  spoke, 
"  that  you  modern  fellows  are  too  much  devoted 
to  the  color  scheme.  I  remember  when  I  was 
a  boy,  Gautier  set  us  crazy  in  Paris  with  his 
color  sense.  His  pages  glowed  with  all  the  pig- 
ments of  the  palette ;  he  vied  with  the  jeweller 
in  introducing  precious  stones  of  the  most  ravish- 
ing brilliancy  within  the  walls  of  his  paragraph ; 
I  sickened  of  all  this  splendor,  this  Rtiskin 
word-painting,  and  went  in  for  cool  grays,  took 
up  Baudelaire  and  finally  reached  Verlaine, 
227 


MELOMANIACS 

whose  music  is  the  echo  of  music  heard  in  misty 
mediaeval  parks  while  the  peacock  dragging  by 
with  its  twilight  tail,  utters  shrill  commentary  on 
such  moonshine.  After  that  I  reached  Chopin 
and  found  him  too  dangerous,  too  treacherous, 
too  condensed,  the  art  too  filed  out;  and  so  I 
finally  landed  in  the  arms  of  Wagner,  and  I  Ve 
been  there  ever  since." 

"  Look  here,  Cintras,  you  're  prose-mad  and 
you  Ve  landed  nowhere."  Berkeley  lighted  one 
of  Hodson's  cigarettes.  "  When  a  new,  big  fel- 
low comes  along  you  follow  him  until  you  find 
out  how  he  does  the  trick  and  then  you  get 
bored.  Don't  you  remember  the  day  you 
rushed  into  my  studio  and  yelled,  '  Newman  is 
the  only  man  who  wrote  prose  in  the  nineteenth 
century,'  and  then  persisted  in  spouting  long 
sentences  from  the  '  Apologia '  ?  First  it  was 
Arnold,  then  it  was  Edmund  Burke."  "  It  will 
always  be  Burke,"  interrupted  Cintras.  "  Then 
it  was  Maurice  de  Gue"rin,  and  I  suppose  it 
wilt  be  Flaubert  forever  and  ever."  They  all 
laughed. 

"Yes,  Billy,  it  will  always  be  Gustave  Flau- 
bert, and  I  worship  him  more  and  more  every 
day.  It  took  him  forty  years  to  write  four  books 
and  three  stories,  and,  as  Henry  James  says,  he 
deliberately  planned  masterpieces." 

Hodson  broke  in :  "  You  literary  men  make 
me  tired.  Why,  if  I  turned  out  copy  at  the 
rate  of  Slobsbert — what's  his  name?  —  I'd 
238 


THE   CORRIDOR   OF  TIME 

starve.  What's  all  the  fuss  about,  anyhow? 
Write  natural  English  and  any  one  will  under- 
stand you  "  —  "  Ah,  natural  English,  that 's  what 
one  man  writes  in  a  generation,"  sighed  Cintras. 
"  And  when  you  want  something  great,"  con- 
tinued the  young  man,  "  why,  read  a  good 
'  thriller '  about  the  great  Cemetery  Syndicate, 
and  how  it  robbed  the  dead  for  gold  fillings  in 
teeth.  The  author  just  slings  it  out  —  and  such 
words !  " 

"  Yes,  with  a  whitewash  brush."  Berkeley 
scowled. 

"  Why,"  pursued  Hodson,  unmoved,  "  why 
don't  you  get  married,  Cintras,  and  work  for 
your  living?  Then  you  '11  have  to  write  syndi- 
cate stuff  and  that  will  knock  the  nonsense  out 
of  you.  Or,  fall  in  love  and  be  miserable  like 
me."  Hodson  paused  to  drink. 

"  O  triste,  triste  £tait  mon  ame, 
A  cause,  a  cause  d'une  femme." 

"  That 's  Verlaine ;  Hoddy,  my  boy,  when  you 
grow  up,  quit  newspapering  and  become  cul- 
tured, you  may  appreciate  its  meaning  and 
beauty." 

"  When  I  am  cultured  I  '11  be  a  night  city 
editor ;  that 's  my  ideal,"  said  the  youth, 
stoutly. 

"  Let 's  go  over  to  Merville's  room  and  make 
him  play  Chopin,"  suggested  Pauch,  the  sculptor, 
who  seldom  spoke,  but  could  eat  more  than  four 
229 


MELOMANIACS 

men.  .  .  .  They  drank  their  coffee  and  went 
across  into  Twelfth  street,  and  at  the  top  of  the 
house  they  found  the  musician's  room.  It  was 
large,  but  poorly  fitted  out.  An  old  square- 
piano,  a  stove,  a  bed,  three  chairs,  a  big  lounge 
and  a  washstand  completed  the  catalogue.  Mer- 
ville  made  them  comfortable  and  sat  down  to 
the  piano.  Its  tone,  as  his  fingers  crept  over  the 
keys,  was  of  faded  richness  and  there  were  re- 
verberations of  lost  splendors  in  the  bass.  Mer- 
ville  started  with  a  Chopin  nocturne,  but 
Hodson  hurt  the  cat  as  it  brushed  against  him, 
and  the  noise  displeased  the  pianist.  He 
stopped. 

"  I  don't  feel  like  Chopin,  it 's  too  early  in 
the  day.  Chopin  should  be  heard  only  in  the 
early  evening  or  after  midnight.  I  '11  give  you 
some  Brahms  instead.  Brahms  suits  the  after- 
noon, this  gray,  dull  day."  All  were  too  lazy  to 
reply  and  the  pianist  began,  with  hesitating 
touch,  an  Intermezzo  in  A  minor.  It  sounded 
like  music  heard  in  a  dream,  a  dream  anterior  to 
this  existence.  It  seemed  as  if  life,  tired  of  the 
external  blaze  of  the  sun,  sought  for  the  secret 
of  hidden  spaces ;  searched  for  the  message  in 
the  sinuous  murmuring  shell.  It  was  an  art  of  an 
art,  the  penumbra  of  an  art.  Its  faint  outlines 
melted  into  one's  soul  and  refused  to  be  turned 
away.  The  recollection  of  other  music  seemed 
gross  after  this  curiously  introspective,  this 
almost  whorl-like,  music.  It  was  the  return  to 
230 


THE   CORRIDOR   OF   TIME 

the  invertebrate,  the  shadow  of  a  shadow,  and 
the  hearts  of  Merville's  guests  were  downcast 
and  purified.  .  .  . 

When  he  had  finished,  Cintras  asked  :  "  If 
that  is  Brahms,  why  then  he  has  solved  the 
secret  of  the  age's  end.  He  has  written  the 
song  of  humanity  absorbed  in  the  slime  of  a 
dying  planet." 

"  Very  morbid,  very  perverse  in  rhythms,  I 
should  say,"  broke  in  Berkeley;  they  all 
shivered.  Merville  arose,  his  face  glum  and 
drawn,  and  brought  whiskey  and  glasses. 

Cintras  was  the  first  to  speak : 

"  Hodson,  you  are  a  very  young  fellow  and  I 
wish  to  give  you  good  advice.  Yours  to  me 
was  better  than  you  supposed.  Now  don't  you 
ever  bother  with  art,  music  or  artistic  prose. 
Just  marry  a  nice  girl  who  goes  to  comic 
operas.  You  stick  to  her  and  avoid  Balzac. 
He  is  too  strong  meat  for  you  —  "  "  Yes,  but 
he 's  great ;  I  read  him  !  "  "  And  no  more  un- 
derstand him  than  you  do  Chopin.  Because  he 
is  great  he  is  readable,  but  his  secret  is  the 
secret  of  the  sphinx ;  it  may  only  be  unravelled 
by  a  few  strong  souls.  So  go  your  road  and  be 
happy  in  your  plush  way,  read  your  historical 
hog-wash,  and  believe  me  when  I  swear  that 
the  most  miserable  men  are  those  who  have 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  eternal  beauty  of  art, 
who  pursue  her  ideal  face,  who  have  the  vision 
but  not  the  voice.  I  once  wrote  a  little  prose 
231 


MELOMANIACS 

poem  about  this  desire  of  beauty ;  I  will  see  if  I 
can  remember  it  for  you." 

"  Go  ahead,  old  man ;  I  '11  stand  anything  to- 
day," sang  out  Hodson. 

"  Here  it  is :  "  and  Cintras  recited  his  legend 

of 

• 

THE   RECURRING   STAIRCASE 

I  first  saw  her  on  the  Recurring  Staircase.  I  had 
turned  sharply  the  angle  of  the  hall  and  placed  my 
foot  upon  the  bottom  step  and  then  I  saw  her.  She 
was  motionless ;  her  back  I  saw,  and  O  !  the  grace 
of  her  neck  and  the  glory  of  her  arrested  attitude.  I 
feared  to  move,  but  some  portent,  silent,  inflexibly 
eloquent,  haled  me  to  the  staircase.  That  was 
years  ago.  I  called  to  her,  strange  calls,  beautiful 
sounding  names ;  I  besought  her  to  bend  her  head, 
to  make  some  sign  to  my  signals  of  urgency ;  but  her 
glance  was  aloft,  where,  illumined  by  the  scarlet 
music  of  a  setting  sun,  I  saw  in  a  rich,  heavy  mul- 
lioned  embrazure,  multi-colored  glass  shot  through 
with  drunken  despairing  daylight.  Again  I  prayed 
my  Lady  of  the  Recurring  Staircase  to  give  me  hope 
by  a  single  dropped  glance.  At  last  I  conjured  her 
in  Love's  fatal  name,  and  she  moved  languorously  up 
the  steep  slope  of  stairs.  As  if  the  spell  had  been 
thwarted,  I  followed  the  melodious  adagio  of  her 
footsteps.  That  was  many  years  ago.  She  never 
mounted  to  the  heavy  mullioned  embrazure  with  the 
multi-colored  glass  shot  through  with  drunken,  de- 
spairing daylight.  I  never  touched  the  hand  of  the 
232 


THE   CORRIDOR  OF  TIME 

Lady  of  the  Recurring  Staircase ;  for  the  stairs  were 
endless  and  I  stood  ever  upon  the  bottom  step ;  and 
the  others  below  slipped  into  eternity;  and  all  this 
was  many  years  ago.  I  never  have  seen  the  glorious 
glance  of  My  Lady  on  the  Recurring  Staircase. 

They  all  applauded,  Hodson  violently.  "  I 
say,  old  chap,  what  would  you  have  gained  by 
overtaking  the  lady?"  Cintras  sniffed ;  Berke- 
ley laughingly  remarked  that  the  staircase  re- 
minded him  of  the  sort  you  see  at  a  harvest 
with  a  horse  on  the  treadmill. 

"  Don't,  fellows  !  "  begged  Merville.  "  Cintras 
is  giving  one  ideas  to-day  for  a  symphonic  poem. 
Go  on,  Cintras,  with  more,  but  in  a  different  vein. 
Something  in  the  classical  style." 

"  I  can't  do  that,"  responded  Cintras,  trying  not 
to  look  flattered,  "  but  I  will  show  you  my  soul 
when  overtaken  by  doubt."  "  Cintras,  your 
soul,  like  Huysmans's,  is  a  cork  one."  They 
were  aghast,  .for  Hodson  the  uncultured  one 
had  spoken. 

"  And  where,  Hoddy,  my  brave  lad,  did  you 
ever  in  the  world  hear  of  Huysmans?"  he  was 
asked.  "I  read  that;  I  thought  it  fitted  Cin- 
tras. His  soul  is  like  a  cork  ball  that  is  al- 
ways rebounding  from  one  idea  to  another." 
"  Bravo !  you  will  be  the  literary,  not  the  night 
city  editor,  before  you  die,  Hoddy. "...  Then 
Cintras  read  another  prose-poem  which  he  had 
named 

233 


MELOMANIACS 


THE   MIRROR   OF  UNFAITH 

I  looked  into  my  mirror  the  next  morning.  With 
scared  cry  I  again  looked  into  my  mirror.  With 
brutish,  trembling  ringers  I  tried  to  cleanse  the  mist 
from  my  eyes,  and  once  more  I  looked  into  my 
mirror,  scraped  its  surface  tenderly,  but  it  availed 
not.  There  was  no  reflection  of  my  features  in  its 
polished  depths  ;  naught  but  vacancy,  steely  and  pro- 
found. There  is  no  God,  I  had  proclaimed  ;  no  God 
in  high  heaven,  no  God  with  the  world,  no  spirit  ever 
moved  upon  the  vasty  waters,  no  spirit  ever  travailed 
in  the  womb  of  time  and  conceived  the  cosmos. 
There  is  no  God  and  man  is  not  made  in  his  image  ; 
eternity  is  an  eyeless  socket  —  a  socket  that  never 
beheld  the  burning  splendors  of  the  Deity.  There 
is  no  God,  O  my  God  !  And  my  cries  are  futile, 
for  have  I  not  gazed  into  my  mirror,  gazed  with 
clear  ironic  frantic  gaze  and  missed  my  own  image  ! 
There  is  no  God  ;  yet  has  my  denial  been  heard  in 
blackest  Eblis,  and  has  it  not  reverberated  unto  the 
very  edges  of  Time?  There  is  no  God,  and  from 
that  moment  my  face  was  blotted  out.  I  may  never 
see  it  in  the  moving  waters,  in  mirrors,  in  the  burn- 
ished hearts  of  things,  or  in  the  liquid  eyes  of  woman. 
I  denied  God.  I  mocked  His  omnipotence.  I  dared 
him  to  mortal  combat,  and  my  mirror  tells  me  there 
is  no  Me,  no  image  of  the  man  called  by  my  name. 
I  denied  God  and  God  denies  me  ! 

"  If  I  were  in  such  a  mental  condition,"  Hod- 
son  eagerly  commented,  "  I  'd  call  a  doctor  or 


THE   CORRIDOR  OF  TIME 

join  the  Salvation  Army."  "  Why  have  n't  you 
written  more  short  stories?"  inquired  Merville. 
"  Because  I  've  never  had  the  time,"  Cintras 
sadly  answered.  "  Once  I  tried  to  condense 
what  novelists  usually  spread  over  hundreds  of 
pages,  and  say  it  in  a  couple  of  paragraphs. 
Every  word  must  illuminate  the  past,  in  every 
sentence  may  be  found  the  sequel." 

"  Cintras,  I  vow  your  case  is  hopeless.  You 
are  a  regular  cherry-stone  carver.  Here  you  've 
shown  us  the  skeletons  of  two  stories  and  yet 
given  none  of  them  flesh  enough  to  live  upon." 
"  Berkeley  you  belong  to  a  past  full  of  novelistic 
monsters.  You  are  the  three  volume  man  with 
the  happy  ending  tacked  on  willy-nilly.  It  is 
the  tact  of  omission  —  "  "  Hang  your  art-for- 
art  theories.  I  '11  make  more  money  than 
Cintras  ever  did  when  I  publish  my  "  Art  of 
Anonymous  Letter  Writing !  "  cut  in  Hodson. 
Cintras  calmly  continued,  "  Here  is  my  title 
and  see  if  you  can  follow  me." 


INELUCTABLE 

The  light  waned  as  with  tense  fingers  he  turned 
the  round,  bevelled-edge  screw  of  the  lamp.  Dark- 
ness, immitigable,  profound,  and  soft,  must  soon  suc- 
ceed yellow  radiance.  To  face  this  gloom,  to  live  in 
it  and  breathe  of  it,  set  his  heart  harshly  beating.  Yet 
he  slowly  turned  with  tense  fingers  the  bevelled-edge 
screw  of  the  lamp.  He  would  presently  be  forced  to 
235 


MELOMANIACS 

a  criticism  of  the  day,  that  day,  which  must  brilliantly 
flame  when  night  closed  upon  him.  As  in  the  vivid 
agony  endured  between  two  bell-strokes  of  a  clock, 
he  strove  to  answer  the  oppressing  shape  threatening 
him.  And  his  fingers  lingeringly  revolved  the  lamp- 
screw  with  its  brass  and  bevelled-edge.  If  only  some 
gust  of  resolution  would  arise  like  the  sudden  scud  of 
the  squall  that  whitens  far-away  level  summer  seas, 
and  drive  forth  pampered  procrastinations  !  Then 
might  his  fingers  become  flexile,  his  mind  untied. 
Poor,  drab  seconds  that  fooled  with  eternity  and 
supped  on  vain  courage  as  they  went  trooping  by. 
Could  not  one  keen  point  of  consciousness  abide? 
Why  must  all  go  humming  into  oblivion  like  untuned 
values  ?  He  grasped  at  a  single  strand  of  recollection ; 
he  saw  her  parted  lips,  the  passionate  reproach  of 
her  eyes  and  felt  her  strenuous  tacit  acquiescence ; 
he  sensed  the  richness  of  her  love.  So  he  stood, 
unstable,  vacillating  and  a  treacherous  groper  amidst 
cruel  shards  of  an  ineluctable  memory,  powerless 
to  stay  the  fair  phantom  and  fearful  of  looking 
night  squarely  in  the  front.  And  he  remained 
a  dweller  in  the  shadows,  as  he  faintly  fingered  the 
bevelled-edge  screw  of  the  lamp.  .  .  . 

"  If  Maeterlinck  would  feed  on  Henry  James 
and  write  a  dream  fugue  on  your  affected  title, 
this  might  be  the  result,"  muttered  Berkeley. 
"Hush!"  whispered  Merville;  "can't  you  see 
that  it  is  his  own  life  he  is  unconsciously  relating 
in  this  sequence  of  short  stories ;  the  tale  of  his 
own  pampered  procrastinations  ?  If  he  had  only 
236 


THE   CORRIDOR   OF   TIME 

made  up  his  mind  perhaps  he  could  have  kept 
her  by  his  side  and  been  happy  but  "  —  "  But 
instead,"  said  Berkeley  sourly  "  he  wrote  queer 
impossible  things  about  bevelled-edge  lamp 
screws  and  she  could  n't  stand  it.  I  don't  blame 
her.  I  say,  nature  before  art  every  time."  .  .  . 
Then  Hodson  shouted,  dispelling  dangerous 
reveries : 

"  Cintras,  why  don't  you  finish  that  book  of 
yours  ?  Ten  years  ago  you  told  me  that  you  had 
finished  it  nearly  one-half."  "  Yes,  and  in  ten 
years  more  he  will  finish  the  other,"  remarked 
Berkeley. 

"  If  you  knew  how  I  worked  you  would  not 
ask  why  I  work  slowly."  "  Flaubert  again  !  " 
interjected  Berkeley. 

"  The  title  cost  me  much  pain,  and  the  first 
two  lines  infinite  travail.  I  really  write  with 
great  facility.  I  once  wrote  a  novel  in  three 
weeks  for  a  sensation  monger  of  a  publisher; 
but  because  of  this  ease  I  suspect  every  sentence, 
every  word,  aye,  every  letter  that  drops  from 
my  pen." 

"  Hire  a  typewriter  and  you  '11  suspect  no- 
body," suggested  Hodson.  .  .  . 

The  party  began  to  break  up  ;  Cintras  pressed 
hands  and  went  first.  There  was  some  desultory 
conversation,  during  which  Berkeley  endeavored 
to  persuade  Hodson  to  buy  him  his  dinner. 
Then  they  left  Merville  and  Pauch  alone.  The 
musician  looked  at  the  sculptor. 
237 


MELOMANIACS 

"  And  these  makers  of  words  think  they  have 
the  secret  of  art;  as  if  form,  as  if  music,  is  not 
infinitely  greater  and  nearer  the  core  of  life." 
Pauch  grunted. 

"There's  a  man,  that  Brahms,  you  played, 
Merville ;  his  is  great  art  which  will  girdle  the 
centuries.  The  man  built  solidly  for  the  future. 
He  reminds  me  of  Rodin's  Calais  group : 
harsh  but  eternal ;  secret  and  sweetly  harsh. 
Brahms  is  the  Bonze  of  his  art;  his  music 
has  often  the  immobility  of  the  Orient  —  I 
think  the  '  Vibrationists '  would  describe  it  as 
'  kinetic  stability.'  .  .  .  Cintras  is  done.  He 
never  did  anything;  he  never  will.  He  theorizes 
too  much.  If  you  talk  too  often  of  the  beautiful 
things  you  are  going  to  execute  they  will  go 
sailing  into  the  air  for  some  other  fellow  to 
catch.  Mark  my  words !  No  man  may  play 
tag  with  his  soul  and  win  the  game.  He  is  a 
study  in  temperament,  or,  rather  the  need  of 
one,  is  Cintras.  He  must  have  received  a 
black  eye  some  time.  Was  he  ever  in  love  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  she  went  off  with  another  fellow." 

"  That  explains  all."  Pauch  stolidly  asked  for 
beer,  and  getting  none  strolled  home.  .  .  . 

Cintras  died.  Among  his  effects  was  found 
a  bulky  mass  of  manuscript ;  almost  trembling 
with  joy  and  expectation  Berkeley  carried  the 
treasure  to  Merville's  room.  On  the  title-page 
was  read :  "  The  Corridor  of  Time :  A  Novel. 
By  George  Cintras." 

238 


THE   CORRIDOR   OF   TIME 

Frantic  with  curiosity  the  friends  found  on 
the  next  page  the  following  lines : 

"And  the  insistent  clamor  of  her  name  at  my 
heart  is  as  the  sonorous  roll  of  the  sea  on  a 
savage  shore." 

The  other  pages  were  virginal  of  ink.  .  .  . 


AVATAR 

Somewhere  ;  in  desolate  wind-swept  space, 
In  Twilight-land  —  in  No-man's  land  — 

Two  hurrying  shapes  met  face  to  face 
And  bade  each  other  stand. 

"  And  who  are  you  ?  "  cried  one  agape 
Shuddering  in  the  gloaming  light ; 
"  I  know  not,"  said  the  second  shape, 
"  I  only  died  last  night !  " 

—  ALDRICH. 

MVCHOWSKI  was  considered  by  grave  critical 
authorities,  the  best  living  interpreter  of  Chopin. 
He  was  a  Pole  —  any  one  could  tell  that  by  the 
way  he  spelt  his  name  —  and  a  perfect  foil  to 
Paderewski,  being  short,  thick-set  and  with  hair 
as  black  as  a  kitchen  beetle.  His  fat  amiable 
face,  flat  and  corpulent  fingers,  his  swarthy  skin 
and  upturned  nose,  were  called  comical  by  the 
women  who  thronged  his  recitals;  but  My- 
chowski  at  the  keyboard  was  a  different  man 
from  the  Mychowski  who  sat  all  night  at  a 
table  eating  macaroni  and  drinking  Apollinaris 
water.  Then  the  funny  profile  vanished  and 
the  fat  fingers  literally  dripped  melody.  His 
readings  of  the  Polish  master's  music  were  dis- 
tinguished by  grace,  dexterity,  finesse,  pathos 
240 


AVATAR 

and  subtilty.  The  only  pupils  of  Chopin  alive 
—  there  were  only  six  now  —  hobbled  to  My- 
chowski's  concerts  and  declared  that  at  last 
their  dead  idol  was  reincarnated,  at  last  the 
miracle  had  taken  place :  a  genuine  interpreter 
of  Chopin  had  appeared  —  then  severe  cough- 
ing, superinduced  by  emotion,  and  the  rest  of 
the  sentence  would  finish  in  tears.  .  .  . 

The  Chopin  pupils  also  wrote  to  the  papers 
letters  always  beginning,  "  Honored  Sir,  — 
Your  numerous  and  intelligent  readers  would 
perhaps  like  to  know  in  what  manner  Chopin's 
performance  of  the  F  minor  Ballade  resembled 
Mychowski's.  It  was  in  the  year  1842  that  —  " 
A  sextuple  flood  of  recollections  was  then  let 
loose,  and  Mychowski  the  gainer  thereby.  Still 
he  obstinately  refused  to  be  lionized,  cut  his 
hair  perilously  near  the  prizefighter's  line,  and 
never  went  into  society,  except  for  money. 
He  was  a  model  business  man ;  the  impresarios 
worshipped  him.  Such  business  ability,  such 
frugality,  such  absence  of  eccentricity,  such 
temperance,  were  voted  extraordinary. 

"  Why,  the  man  never  gambles,"  said  a  man- 
ager, "  drinks  only  at  his  meals  "  —  "  which  are 
many,"  interrupted  some  one  —  "  and  always 
sends  his  money  home  to  his  wife  and  family  in 
Poland.  Yet  he  plays  like  a  god.  It  is  un- 
heard of."  .  .  . 

The  Polish  servant  Mychowski  brought  with 
him  from  home  sickened  in  Paris  and  died. 
16  241 


MELOMANIACS 

Although  the  pianist  was  playing  the  Erard, 
he  went  often  to  the  Pleyel  piano  warerooms 
and  there  told  a  friend  that  he  was  without  a 
valet. 

"  We  have  some  one  here  who  will  suit  you. 
His  father  was  Chopin's  body-servant,  who,  as 
you  must  have  read,  was  an  Irish-Frenchman 
named  Daniel  Dubois.  We  call  the  son  Daniel 
Chopin;  he  looks  so  much  like  some  of  the 
pictures  of  your  great  countryman.  Best  of 
all,  he  doesn't  know  one  note  of  music  from 
another." 

"  Just  the  man,"  cried  Mychowski ;  "  my  last 
valet  always  insisted  on  waking  me  in  the 
morning  with  a  Bach  Invention.  It  was  awful." 
Mychowski  shuddered. 

"  Wait,  then ;  I  '11  send  upstairs  for  him,"  said 
the  amiable  representative  of  the  Maison  Pleyel, 
and  soon  there  appeared,  dressed  after  the 
fashion  fifty  years  ago,  a  man  of  about  thirty, 
whose  face  and  expression  caused  Mychowski 
to  bound  out  of  his  seat  and  exclaim  in  his 
native  tongue: 

"Slawa  Bohu!  but  he  looks  like  Fre"de>ic." 

The  man  started  a  little,  then  became  impas- 
sive. "  My  father  was  Daniel  Dubois,  in  whose 
arms  the  great  master  died.  May  he  keep  com- 
pany with  the  angels  !  When  my  mother  bore  me 
she  wore  a  medallion  containing  a  portrait  of 
the  great  master,  and  my  father,  who  was  his 
pupil,  played  the  nocturnes  for  her." 
242 


AVATAR 

The  speaker's  voice  was  slightly  muffled  in 
timbre,  its  accent  was  languid,  yet  it  was  in- 
dubitably the  voice  of  a  cultivated  man.  My- 
chowski  regarded  him  curiously.  A  slim  frame 
of  middle  height;  fragile  but  wonderfully  flexi- 
ble limbs  ;  delicately  formed  hands  ;  very  small 
feet ;  an  oval,  softly-outlined  head ;  a  pale, 
transparent  complexion;  long  silken  hair  of  a 
light  chestnut  color  parted  on  one  side ;  tender 
brown  eyes,  intelligent  rather  than  dreamy; 
a  finely-curved  aquiline  nose,  a  sweet,  subtle 
smile  ;  graceful  and  varied  gestures  —  such  was 
the  outward  presence  of  Daniel  Dubois. 

"  He  looks  just  like  the  description  given  by 
Niecks,"  murmured  the  pianist.  "  Even  the  eyes 
mepiwne,  as  we  say  in  Poland,  couleurde  biere. 

"Yet  you  do  not  play  the  piano?"  he  con- 
tinued. The  man  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 
Terms  were  arranged,  and  the  valet  sent  to 
Mychowski's  rooms. 

"  And  the  mother,  who  was  she  ?  "  Mychowski 
asked  later. 

"  Pst !  "  enjoined  his  friend  discreetly.  My- 
chowski smiled,  sighed,  shook  his  head,  settled 
himself  before  a  new  piano  and  plunged  into 
the  preludes,  playing  the  entire  twenty-five 
without  pause,  while  business  was  suspended  in 
the  ancient  and  honorable  Maison  Pleyel,  so 
captivating,  so  miraculous,  was  the  poetic  per- 
formance of  this  commonplace  and  kind-hearted 
virtuoso.  .  .  . 

243 


MELOMANIACS 

Mychowski  discovered  in  Daniel  an  agreeable 
servant.  He  was  noiseless,  ubiquitous.  He 
'could  make  an  omelette  or  sew  on  a  button 
with  woman's  skill.  His  small,  well-kept  hands 
knew  no  fatigue,  and  his  master  often  watched 
them,  almost  transparent,  fragile  and  aristo- 
cratic, as  they  shaved  his  rotund  oily  face. 
Daniel  was  admirable  in  his  management  of  the 
musical  library,  seeming  to  know  where  the 
music  of  every  composer  had  to  be  placed. 
Mychowski  wondered  how  he  contrived  to  find 
time  to  learn  so  much  and  yet  keep  his  hands 
from  the  keyboard.  After  the  first  month  My- 
chowski began  to  envy  his  servant  the  pos- 
session of  such  a  poetic  personality. 

"  Now  if  I  had  such  a  face  and  figure  how 
much  better  an  effect  I  should  produce.  I  see 
the  women  laugh  when  I  sit  down  to  play,  and  if 
it  was  n't  for  my  fat  fingers  where  would  I  be? " 
Mychowski  sighed.  He  had  conquered  the 
musical  world,  but  not  his  reflection  in  the  mir- 
ror. He  had  made  some  charming  conquests, 
but  his  better  guides  had  whispered  to  him  that 
it  was  his  music,  not  his  face,  that  had  won  the 
women.  He  was  vain,  sensitive  and  without 
the  courage  of  his  nose,  unlike  Cyrano  de 
Bergerac.  Nothing  was  lacking ;  talent,  wealth, 
health,  a  capital  digestion  and  success !  Had 
they  not  poured  in  upon  him  ?  From  his  twen- 
tieth year  he  enjoyed  the  sunshine  of  popu- 
lar favor  and  after  ten  years  was  enamoured  of 
244 


AVATAR 

it  as  ever.  He  almost  felt  bitter  when  he  saw 
Daniel's  high-bred  and  delicate  figure.  He  ques- 
tioned him  a  hundred  times,  but  could  find  out 
nothing.  Where  had  he  been  raised?  Who  was 
his  mother,  and  why  did  he  select  a  servant's  life  ? 
Daniel  replied  with  repose  and  managed  to 
parry  or  evade  all  inquiries.  He  confessed, 
however,  to  one  weakness  —  insatiable  love  for 
music  —  and  begged  his  master  to  be  allowed 
the  privilege  of  sitting  in  the  room  during  the 
practising  hours.  When  a  concert  was  given 
Daniel  went  to  the  hall  and  arranged  all  that  was 
necessary  for  the  pianist's  comfort.  Mychowski 
caught  him  at  a  recital  one  night  with  a  score  of 
the  F  minor  Ballade  of  Chopin,  and  warm  and 
irritable  as  he  was,  for  he  had  just  played  the 
work,  he  could  not  refrain  from  asking  his 
servant  how  it  had  pleased  him.  Daniel  shook 
his  head  gently.  Mychowski  stared  at  him 
curiously,  with  chagrin.  Then  a  lot  of  women 
rushed  in  to  congratulate  the  artist,  but  stopped 
to  stare  aghast  at  Daniel. 

"  Ah,  M.  Mychowski !  "  —  it  was  the  beautiful 
Countess  d'Angers  —  "We  know  now  why  you 
play  Chopin  so  wonderfully,  for  have  you  not 
his  ghost  here  to  tell  you  everything?  Naughty 
magician,  why  have  you  not  come  to  me  on  my 
evenings?  You  surely  received  cards!"  My- 
chowski looked  so  annoyed  at  the  jest  that 
Daniel  slipped  out  of  the  room  and  did  not 
appear  until  the  carriage  was  ready.  .  .  . 
245 


MELOMANIACS 

At  the  cafe  where  Mychowski  invariably  went 
for  his  macaroni  Daniel  usually  had  a  place  at 
the  table.  The  pianist  was  easy  in  his  manners, 
and  not  rinding  his  man  presumptuous  he  made 
him  a  companion.  They  had  both  eaten  in 
silence,  Mychowski  gluttonously.  Looking  at 
Daniel  and  drinking  a  glass  of  chianti,  he  said 
in  his  most  jocular  manner: 

"  Eh  bien,  mon  brave  !  now  tell  me  why  you 
did  n't  like  my  F  minor  Ballade."  Daniel  lifted 
his  eyes  slowly  to  the  other's  face  and  smiled 
faint  protestation.  Mychowski  would  take  no 
refusal.  He  swore  in  Polish  and  called  out  in 
lusty  tones,  "  Come  now,  Daniel  Chopin,  what 
did  n't  you  like,  the  tempo,  the  conception,  the 
coda,  or  my  touch  ?  " 

"  Your  playing,  cher  maitre,  was  yourself. 
No  one  can  do  what  you  can,"  answered  Daniel 
evasively. 

"  Hoity-toity  !  What  have  we  here,  a  critic  in 
disguise?"  said  Mychowski  good  humoredly, 
yet  at  heart  greatly  troubled.  "  Do  you  know 
what  the  pupils  of  Chopin  say  of  my  interpreta- 
tion? "  Daniel  again  shook  his  head. 

"  They  know  nothing  about  Chopin  or  his 
music,"  he  calmly  replied.  A  thunderbolt  had 
fallen  at  Mychowski's  feet  and  he  was  affrighted. 
Know  nothing  of  Chopin  or  his  music  ?  Here  was 
a  pretty  presumption.  "  Pray,  Daniel,"  he  man- 
aged to  gasp  out,  "  pray  how  does  your  lordship 
happen  to  know  so  much  about  Chopin  and  his 
246 


AVATAR 

music?"     Mychowski  was  becoming  angry.     In 
a  stifled  voice  Daniel  replied : 

"  Dear  master,  only  what  my  father  told  me. 
But  do  let  me  go  home  and  get  your  bed 
ready.  I  feel  faint  and  I  ask  pardon  for  my 
impertinence.  I  am  indeed  no  critic,  nor  shall 
I  ever  presume  again."  "  You  may  go,"  said 
his  master  in  gruff  accents,  and  regretted  his 
rudeness  as  soon  as  Daniel  was  out  of  sight.  If 
any  one  of  the  managers  who  so  ardently 
praised  Mychowski's  temperate  habits  had  seen 
him  guzzling  wine,  beer  and  brandy  that  night, 
they  might  have  been  shocked.  He  seldom 
went  to  excess,  but  was  out  of  sorts  and  nettled 
at  criticism  from  such  a  quarter.  Yet  —  had  he 
played  as  well  as  usual?  Was  not  overpraise 
undermining  his  artistic  constitution?  He 
thought  hard  and  vainly  endeavored  to  recap- 
ture the  mood  in  which  he  had  interpreted  the 
Ballade,  and  then  he  fell  to  laughing  at  his 
spleen.  A  great  artist  to  be  annoyed  by  the 
first  adverse  feather  that  happened  to  tickle 
him  in  an  awkward  way.  What  folly !  What 
vanity !  Mychowski  laughed  and  ordered  a  big 
glass  of  brandy  to  steady  his  nerves. 

All  fat  men,  he  thought,  are  nervous  and 
sensitive.  I  must  really  go  to  Marienbad  and 
drink  the  waters  and  I  think  I  '11  leave  Daniel 
Chopin  behind  in  Paris.  Chopin  —  Chopin,  I 
wonder  how  much  Chopin  is  in  him?  Pooh! 
what  nonsense.  Chopin  only  loved  Sand  and 
247 


MELOMANIACS 

before  that  Constantia  Gladowska.  He  never 
stooped  to  commonplace  intrigue.  But  the 
resemblance,  the  extraordinary  resemblance ! 
After  all,  nature  plays  queer  pranks.  A  thunder- 
storm may  alarm  a  Mozart  into  existence,  and 
why  not  a  second  Chopin?  Ah,  if  I  had  that 
fellow's  face  and  figure  or  he  had  my  fingers 
what  could  n't  we  do  ?  If  he  were  not  too  old 
to  study  —  no,  I  won't  give  him  lessons,  I  '11  be 
damned  if  I  will !  He  might  walk  away  with 
me,  piano  and  all.  Chopin  face,  Chopin  fingers. 

Mychowski  was  rapidly  becoming  helpless 
and  at  two  o'clock  the  patron  of  the  caf6  sent  a 
message  to  Daniel,  who  was  hard  by,  that  he 
had  better  fetch  his  master  away.  The  pianist 
was  lifted  into  a  carriage,  though  he  lived  just 
around  the  corner,  and  with  the  aid  of  the  con- 
cierge, a  cynical  man  of  years,  was  helped  into 
his  apartment  and  put  to  bed.  It  was  a  trying 
night  for  Daniel,  whose  nature  revolted  at  any 
suggestion  of  the  grosser  vices.  .  .  . 

From  dull,  muddy  unconsciousness  the  soul 
of  Mychowski  struggled  up  into  thin  light. 
He  fought  with  bands  of  villainous  appearing 
men  holding  tuning  forks ;  he  was  rolled  down 
terrific  gulfs  a-top  of  pianos ;  while  accompany- 
ing him  in  his  vertiginous  flight  were  other  pianos, 
square,  upright  and  grand ;  pianos  of  sinister 
and  menacing  expression ;  pianos  with  cruel 
grinning  teeth ;  pianos  of  obsolete  and  anony- 
mous shapes ;  pianos  that  leered  at  him,  sneered 
248 


AVATAR 

at  him  with  screaming  dissonances.  The  din 
was  infernal,  the  clangor  terrific ;  and  as  the 
pianist,  hemmed  in  and  riding  this  whirlwind 
of  splintered  sounding-boards,  jangling  wires 
and  crunching  lyres,  closed  his  eyes  expecting 
the  last  awful  plunge  into  the  ghastly  abyss,  a 
sudden,  piercing  tone  penetrated  the  thick  of 
the  storm ;  as  if  by  sorcery,  the  turmoil  faded 
away,  and,  looking  about  him,  Mychowski's  dis- 
ordered senses  took  note  of  an  exquisite  valley 
in  which  rapidly  flowed  a  tiny  silvery  stream. 
Carpeted  with  green  and  fragrant  with  flowers, 
the  landscape  was  magical,  and  most  melancholy 
was  the  music  made  by  the  running  waters. 
Never  had  the  artist  heard  such  music,  and 
in  the  luminous  haze  of  his  mind  it  seemed 
familiar.  Three  tones,  three  Gs  in  the  treble 
and  in  octaves,  sounded  clear  to  him ;  and  again 
and  once  more  they  were  heard  in  doubled 
rhythm.  A  rippling  prelude  rained  upon  the 
meadows  and  Mychowski  lay  perfectly  en- 
tranced. He  knew  what  was  coming  and 
knew  not  the  music.  Then  a  melody  fell  from 
the  trees  as  they  whispered  over  the  banks  of 
the  brook  and  it  was  in  the  key  of  F  minor.  A 
nocturne ;  yet  the  day  was  young.  Its  mourn- 
ful reiterations  darkened  the  sky ;  but  about  all, 
enchantment  lay.  In  G  flat,  so  the  sensitive 
ear  of  the  pianist  warned  him,  was  his  life  being 
borne ;  but  only  for  a  time.  Back  came  the 
first  persistent  theme,  bringing  with  it  over- 
249 


MELOMANIACS 

powering  richness  of  hue  and  scent,  and  then  it 
melted  away  in  prismatic  vapors.  .  .  . 

"What  is  all  this  melodic  madness?"  asked 
Mychowski.  He  knew  the  music  made  by  the 
little  river  and  trees,  yet  he  groped  as  if  in  the 
toils  of  a  nightmare  to  name  it.  That  solemn 
narrative  in  six-eight  time  in  B  flat,  where 
had  he  heard  it?  The  glowing,  glittering  ara- 
besques, the  trilling  as  if  from  the  throats  of 
a  thousand  larks,  the  cunning  imitations  as  if 
leaf  mocked  leaf  in  the  sunshine !  Again  the 
first  theme  in  F  minor,  but  amplified  and  en- 
larged with  a  spray  of  basses  and  under  a  clouded 
sky.  Without  knowing  why,  the  unhappy  man 
felt  the  impending  catastrophe  and  hastened  to 
escape  it.  But  in  vain.  His  feet  were  as  lead, 
and  suddenly  the  heavens  opened,  fiercely  light- 
ened, the  savage  thunder  leaping  upon  him  in 
chromatic  dissonances ;  then  a  great  stillness  in 
C  major,  and  with  solemn,  silent  steps  he  de- 
scended in  modulated  chords  until  he  reached 
an  awful  crevasse.  With  a  howl  the  tempest 
again  unloosed,  and  in  screeching  accents  the 
end  came,  came  in  F  minor.  For  many  oc- 
taves Mychowski  fell  as  a  stone  from  a  star, 
and  as  he  crashed  into  the  very  cellarage  of  hell 
he  heard  four  snapping  chords  and  found  himself 
on  the  floor  of  his  bedroom.  .  .  . 

"  The  F  minor  Ballade,  of  course,"  he  cried ; 
"  and  a  nice  ass  I  made  of  myself  last  night.  Oh, 
what  a  head !  But  I  wonder  how  I  came  to 
250 


AVATAR 

dream  of  the  Ballade?  Oh,  yes,  talking  about 
it  with  Daniel,  of  course.  What  a  vivid  dream  ! 
I  heard  every  note,  and  thought  the  trees  and 
the  brook  were  enjoying  a  duo,  and  —  Bon 
Dieu!  what's  that?" 

Mychowski,  his  face  swollen  and  hair  in  dis- 
order, slowly  lifted  himself  and  sat  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed  as  he  listened. 

"  Who  the  devil  is  playing  at  this  hour?  But 
what's  this?  Am  I  dreaming  again?  There 
goes  that  damnable  Ballade."  Mychowski 
rushed  out  of  his  room,  down  the  short  hall  and 
pushed  open  the  door  of  the  music-room.  The 
music  stopped.  Daniel  was  dusting  some  music 
at  the  end  of  the  piano  as  he  came  in. 

"  Ah  !  dear  master,  I  hope  you  are  not  sick," 
said  the  faithful  fellow,  dropping  his  feather- 
duster  and  running  to  Mychowski,  who  stood 
still  and  only  stared. 

"  Who  was  playing  the  piano?  "  he  demanded. 
"  The  piano?"  quoth  Daniel.  "  Yes,  the  piano. 
Was  any  one  here  ?  " 

"  No  one  has  called  this  morning,"  answered 
Daniel,  "  except  M.  Dufour,  the  patron  of  the 
cafe",  who  came  to  inquire  after  your  health." 
"  It 's  none  of  his  business,"  snapped  Mychowski, 
whose  nerves  were  on  edge,  "  I  heard  piano 
playing  and  I  was  n't  dreaming.  Come,  no 
nonsense,  Daniel,  who  was  it?" 

Just  then  his  eyes  fell  on  the  desk ;  he  strode 
to  it  and  snatched  the  music.  "  There,"  he 
251 


MELOMANIACS 

hoarsely  said,  "  there  is  damning  proof  that 
you  have  lied  to  me ;  there  is  the  Ballade  in  F 
minor  by  Chopin,  and  who,  in  the  name  of 
Beelzebub,  was  playing  it?  Not  you?" 

Daniel  turned  white,  then  pink,  and  trembled 
like  a  cat.  Mychowski,  his  own  face  white, 
with  cold  shivers  playing  zither-wise  up  and 
down  his  back,  looked  at  the  servant  and,  in  a 
feeble  voice,  asked  him,  "Who  are  you,  man?" 
Daniel  recovered  himself  and  said  in  soothing 
tones,  "  Cher  maitre,  you  were  up  too  late  last 
night  and  you  are  nervous,  agitated.  I  ask 
your  pardon,  but  I  never  did  tell  you  that  I  drum 
a  little  on  the  piano,  and  thinking  you  fast 
asleep  I  ventured  on  the  liberty,  and  — " 

"  Drum  a  little  !  You  call  that  drumming?" 
said  Mychowski  slowly.  The  two  men  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes  and  Daniel's  drooped. 
"  Don't  do  it  again ;  that  "s  all.  You  woke  me 
up,"  said  Mychowski  roughly,  and  he  went  out 
of  the  room  without  hearing  Daniel  reply : 

"  No,  Monsieur  Mychowski,  I  will  not  do  it 
again."  .  .  . 

From  that  time  on  Mychowski  was  obsessed. 
He  weighed  the  evidence  and  questioned  again 
and  again  the  validity  of  his  dream,  in  the 
margin  between  sleep  and  waking.  During 
the  daytime  he  was  inclined  to  think  that  it 
had  been  an  odd  trance,  music  and  all;  but 
when  he  had  drunk  brandy  he  grew  superstitious 
and  swore  to  himself  that  he  really  had  heard 
252 


AVATAR 

Daniel  play ;  and  he  became  so  nervous  that  he 
never  took  his  man  about  with  him.  He  drank 
too  much,  and  kept  such  late  hours  that  Daniel 
gently  scolded  him;  finally  he  played  badly 
in  public  and  then  the  critical  press  fairly 
pounced  upon  him.  Too  long  had  he  been 
King  Pianist,  and  his  place  was  coveted  by  the 
pounding  throng  below.  He  drank  more,  and 
presently  there  was  talk  of  a  decadence  in  the 
marvellous  art  of  M.  Mychowski,  the  celebrated 
interpreter  of  Chopin. 

All  this  time  Mychowski  watched  Daniel, 
watched  him  in  the  day,  watched  him  in  the 
night.  He  would  prowl  about  his  apartment 
after  midnight,  listening  for  the  tone  of  a  piano, 
and,  after  telling  Daniel  that  he  would  be  gone 
for  the  day,  he  would  sneak  back  anxious  and 
expectant.  But  he  never  heard  any  music,  and 
this,  instead  of  calming  his  nerves,  made  him 
sicker.  "  Why,"  he  would  ask  himself,  "  if  the 
fellow  can  play  as  he  does,  why  in  the  name  of 
Chopin  does  he  remain  my  servant?  Is  it 
because  his  servant  blood  rules,  or  —  His  ser- 
vant blood?  Why,  he  may  have  Polish  blood 
in  his  veins,  and  such  Polish !  "  Mychowski  grew 
white  at  the  idea.  He  could  not  sleep  at  night 
for  he  felt  lonely,  and  drank  so  much  that  his 
manager  declined  to  do  business  with  him.  Dan- 
iel prayed,  expostulated  and  even  threatened  to 
leave  ;  but  Mychowski  kept  on  the  broad,  down- 
ward path  that  leads  to  the  mirage  called  Thirst. 
253 


MELOMANIACS 

One  afternoon  Mychowski  sat  at  his  accus- 
tomed table  in  the  cafe.  He  was  sick  and  sullen 
after  a  hard  night  of  drinking,  and  as  he  saw 
himself  in  the  mirror  he  bitterly  thought,  "  He 
has  the  face,  he  has  the  figure,  and,  by  God,  he 
plays  like  Chopin."  A  voice  interrupted  him. 

"  Bon  jour,  Monsieur  Mychowski ;  but  how 
can  you  duplicate  yourself,  for  just  a  minute 
ago  I  passed  your  apartment  and  heard  such 
delicious  piano  playing?" 

"  The  devil !  "  cried  Mychowski,  jumping  up, 
and  meeting  the  gaze  of  one  of  the  six  original 
Chopin  pupils.  "  No,  not  the  devil,"  said  the 
other;  "but  Chopin.  Surely  you  could  not 
have  been  playing  the  F  minor  Ballade  so 
marvellously  and  so  early  in  the  day  ?  Now, 
Chopin  always  asserted  that  the  F  minor  Bal- 
lade was  for  the  dusk  — " 

"  No,"  interrupted  Mychowski,  "  it  was  not  I ; 
it  was  only  Daniel,  my  valet,  and  my  pupil. 
The  lazy  scamp  !  If  I  catch  him  at  the  piano 
instead  of  at  his  work  I  '11  break  every  bone  in 
his  body."  Mychowski's  eyes  were  evil. 

"  But  I  assure  you,  cher  monsieur,  this  was  no 
servant,  no  pupil ;  this  sounded  as  if  the  master 
had  come  back."  "  You  once  said  that  of  me," 
returned  the  pianist  moodily,  and  as  he  got  up, 
his  face  ugly  with  passion,  he  reiterated : 

"  I  tell  you  it  was  Daniel  Chopin.  But  I  '11  an- 
swer for  his  silence  after  I  've  finished  with  him." 

Mychowski  hurried  home.  .  .  . 
254 


THE   WEGSTAFFES    GIVE   A 
MUSICALE 

I  HAD  promised  Mrs.  Wegstaffe  and  so  there 
was  no  escape ;  not  that  my  word  was  as  good 
as  my  bond  —  in  the  matter  of  invitations  it  was 
not — but  I  liked  Edith  Wegstaffe,  who  was 
pretty,  even  if  she  did  murder  Bach.  Hence 
the  secret  of  my  acceptance  of  Mrs.  Wegstaffe's 
rather  frigid  inquiry  as  to  whether  I  was  en- 
gaged for  the  fourteenth.  I  am  a  bachelor,  and 
next  to  cats,  hate  music  heartily.  Almost  any 
other  form  of  art  appeals  to  my  aestheticism, 
which  must  feed  upon  form,  color,  substance, 
but  not  upon  impalpabilities.  Silly  sound 
waves,  that  are  said  to  possess  color,  form, 
rhythm  —  in  fact,  all  attributes  of  the  plastic 
arts.  "  Pooh  !  What  nonsense,"  I  cried  on  the 
evening  of  the  fourteenth,  as  I  cursed  a  wretched 
collar  that  would  not  be  coerced.  .  .  .  When  I 
reached  the  Wegstaffe  mansion  I  found  my 
progress  retarded  by  half  a  hundred  guests,  who 
fought,  but  politely,  mind  you,  for  precedence. 
At  last,  rumpled  and  red,  I  reached  the  men's 
dressing  room,  and  the  first  person  I  encoun- 
tered was  Tompkins,  Percy  Tompkins,  a  man  I 
hated  for  his  cocksure  manner  of  speech  and 
255 


MELOMANIACS 

know-it-all  style  on  the  subject  of  music.  Often 
had  he  crushed  my  callow  musical  knowledge 
by  an  apt  phrase,  and  thinking  well  of  myself 
—  at  least  Miss  Edith  says  I  do  —  I  disliked 
Tompkins  heartily.  "  Hello  !  "  with  a  perceptible 
raising  of  his  eyebrows,  "  what  are  you  doing 
here?"  "The  same  as  yourself,"  I  tartly  an- 
swered, for  he  was  not  I'ami  de  la  maison  any 
more  than  I,  and  I  did  n't  purpose  being  sat 
upon,  that  night  at  least.  "  My  good  fellow, 
I  'm  here  to  listen  and  —  to  be  bored,"  he  re- 
plied in  his  wittiest  way. 

"  Indeed !  well  I  'm  in  the  same  boat  about 
the  music,  but  I  hope  I  sha'n't  be  bored." 

"  But  good  heavens,  man,  it 's  an  amateur 
affair  —  musicale,  as  the  WegstafFes  call  it  in 
true  barbarous  American  jargon  —  and  I  fear 
Edith  Wegstaffe  will  play  Chopin  !  " 

This  angered  me;  I  had  long  suspected 
Tompkins  of  entertaining  a  sneaking  admiration 
for  Edith,  and  resolved  to  tell  her  of  this  slur  at 
the  first  opportunity.  I  did  n't  have  a  chance 
to  answer  him ;  a  dozen  men  rushed  into  the 
room,  threw  their  hats  and  coats  on  the  bed  and 
rushed  out  again. 

"  They  're  in  a  hurry  for  a  drink  before  the 
music  begins,"  said  Tompkins.  .  .  . 

Going   slowly   down   the   long    staircase   we 

found  a  little  room  on  the  second  floor  crowded 

with  men  puffing  cigarettes  and  drinking  brandy 

and  soda.     Old  Wegstafife  was  a  generous  host, 

256 


THE  WEGSTAFFES  GIVE  A  MUSICALE 

and  knew  what  men  liked  best  at  a  musicale. 
On  the  top  floor  four  or  five  half-grown  boys 
were  playing  billiards,  and  the  ground  floor  fairly 
surged  with  women  of  all  ages,  degrees  and 
ugliness.  To  me  there  was  only  one  pretty  girl 
in  the  house,  Edith  Wegstaffe ;  but  of  course  I 
was  prejudiced. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  before  Mrs.  Wegstaffe 
gave  the  signal  to  begin.  The  three  long  draw- 
ing-rooms were  jammed  with  smart  looking 
people,  a  fair  sprinkling  of  Bohemians,  and  a  few 
professionals,  whose  hair,  hands  and  glasses  be- 
trayed them.  The  latter  stood  in  groups,  eying 
each  other  suspiciously,  while  regarding  the 
rest  of  the  world  with  that  indulgent  air  they  as- 
sume at  musicales.  Everything  to  my  un- 
practised eye  seemed  in  hopeless  disorder;  a 
frightful  buzz  filled  the  air,  and  a  blond  girl  at 
the  big  piano  was  trying  to  disentangle  a  lot 
of  music.  Near  her  stood  a  long-haired  young 
man  who  perspired  incessantly.  "Ah!"  I 
gloated.  "Nervous!  serves  him  right;  he 
should  have  stayed  at  home  !  " 

Just  then  Mrs.  Wegstaffe  saw  me.  "  You  're 
just  the  man  I  'm  looking  for,"  said  she  hurriedly. 
"  Now  be  a  good  fellow ;  do  go  and  tell  all 
those  people  in  the  other  room  to  stop  talking. 
It 's  nine  o'clock,  and  we  're  a  half  hour  behind 
time."  Before  I  could  expostulate  she  had 
gone,  leaving  me  in  the  same  condition  as  the 
long-haired  young  man  I  had  just  derided. 
17  257 


MELOMANIACS 

"How  tell  them  to  stop  talking?"  I  madly 
asked  myself.  Should  I  go  to  each  group  and 
politely  say :  "  Please  stop,  for  the  music  is 
about  to  begin,"  or  should  I  stand  in  a  doorway 
and  shout: 

"  Say,  quit  gabbling,  will  you  ?  the  parties  in 
the  other  room  are  going  to  spiel."  My  em- 
barrassment was  so  hideous  that  the  latter 
course  would  probably  have  been  adopted,  but 
Miss  Edith  touched  me  on  the  arm  and  I  fol- 
lowed her  to  the  hall. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Trybill!"  she  gasped;  "I'm  so 
nervous  that  I  shall  surely  faint  when  it  comes 
my  turn.  Won't  you  please  turn  the  music  for 
me?  I  shall  really  feel  better  if  some  one  is 
near  me." 

I  looked  at  the  sweet  girl.  There  was  not  a 
particle  of  coquetry  in  her  request.  Dark 
shadows  were  under  her  eyes,  two  pink  spots 
burnt  in  her  pretty  cheeks  and  her  hands 
shook  like  a  cigarette-smoker's. 

"  But  think,  think  of  your  technique,  your 
mamma,  your  guests,"  I  blurted  out  desperately. 
She  shook  her  head  sadly  and  I  shuddered. 
Are  all  amateur  musicales  such  torturing 
things?  .  .  . 

The  house  was  packed.  A  strong  odor  of 
flowers,  perfumes  and  cooking  mingled  in  the 
air;  one  stout  woman  fought  her  way  to  a 
window  and  put  her  head  out  gasping.  It  was 
Madame  Bujoli,  the  famous  vocal  teacher, 
258 


THE   WEGSTAFFES  GIVE  A  MUSICALE 

three  of  whose  crack  pupils  were  on  the  pro- 
gramme. Not  far  from  her  sat  Frau  Makart,  the 
great  instructor  in  the  art  of  German  Lieder  in- 
terpretation, a  hard-featured  woman  who  sneered 
at  Italians,  Italian  methods  and  Italian  music. 
Two  of  her  pupils  were  to  appear,  and  I  saw 
trouble  ahead  in  the  superheated  atmosphere. 

Crash!  went  the  piano.  "They're  off!" 
hoarsely  chuckled  a  sporting  man  next  to  me, 
with  a  wilted  collar,  and  Moszkowski's  "  Na- 
tions "  welled  up  from  the  vicinity  of  the  piano, 
two  young  women  exploiting  their  fingers  in 
its  delivery.  The  talking  in  the  back  drawing- 
rooms  went  on  furiously,  and  I  saw  the  hostess 
coming  toward  me.  I  escape  her  by  edging 
into  the  back  hall,  despite  the  smothered  com- 
plaints of  my  displaced  neighbors. 

I  got  into  the  doorway,  or  rather  into  the 
angle  of  a  door  leading  into  the  back  room. 
The  piano  had  stopped ;  while  wondering  what 
to  do  next  my  attention  was  suddenly  attracted 
by  a  conversation  to  which  I  had  to  listen ;  it 
was  impossible  to  move  away.  "  So  she  is  go- 
ing to  sing,  is  she?  Well,  we  will  see  if  this 
great  and  only  true  Italian  method  will  put 
brains  into  a  fool's  head  or  voice  into  her 
chest."  This  was  said  in  a  guttural  voice,  the 
accent  being  quite  Teutonic.  A  soprano  voice 
was  heard,  and  I  listened  as  critically  as  I  could. 
The  voice  sang  the  Jewel  Song  from  "  Faust," 
and  it  seemed  to  me  that  its  owner  knew  some- 
259 


MELOMANIACS 

thing  about  singing.  I  understood  the  words. 
She  sang  in  English,  and  what  more  do  you 
want  in  singing? 

But  the  buzz  at  my  left  went  on  fiercely. 
"  So  the  Bujoli  calls  that  voice-production,  does 
she?  Humph!  In  Germany  we  wouldn't  call 
the  cows  home  with  such  singing."  It  was 
surely  Frau  Makart  who  spoke.  There  was  a 
huge  clapping  of  hands,  fans  waved,  and  I  heard 
whispers,  "  Yes,  rather  pretty ;  but  dresses  in  bad 
taste;  good  eyes;  walks  stiffly.  Who  is  she? 
What  was  it  she  sang?  " 

More  chatter.  I  wriggled  away  to  my  first 
position  near  the  piano,  but  not  without  much 
personal  discomfort.  I  was  allowed  to  pass 
because,  for  some  reason  or  other,  I  was  sup- 
posed to  be  running  the  function.  Upon  reach- 
ing the  piano  Edith  beckoned  to  me  rapidly, 
and  I  slid  across  the  polished  floor,  where  she 
was  talking  to  that  hated  Tompkins,  and  asked 
what  I  could  do  for  her. 

"  Hold  my  music  until  I  play;  that 's  a  good 
fellow."  I  hate  to  be  considered  a  "  good  fel- 
low," but  what  could  I  do  ?  Edith,  who  seemed 
to  have  recovered  her  aplomb,  continued  her 
conversation  with  Percy  Tompkins. 

"  You  know,  Mr.  Tompkins,  Chopin  is  for  me 
the  only  composer.  You  know,  his  nocturnes 
fill  me  with  a  sense  of  nothingness  —  the  divine 
rieant,  nirvana,  you  call  it.  Now,  Griinfeld  —  " 

Tompkins  interrupted  rudely :  "  Griinfeld 
260 


THE  WEGSTAFFES  GIVE  A  MUSICALE 

can't  play  Chopin.  Give  me  the  '  Chopinzee.' 
He  plays  Chopin.  As  Schumann  says:  'The 
Chopin  polonaises  are  cannon  buried  in  flowers.' 
Now,  Griinfeld  is  a  — 

"  No  poet !  "  said  I,  indignantly,  for  I  never 
could  admire  the  chubby  Viennese  pianist. 
Tompkins  turned  and  looked  at  me,  but  never 
noticed  my  correction. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Wegstaffe,"  he  continued  viva- 
ciously—  how  I  hated  that  vivacity  —  "  did  you 
hear  that  new  story  about  a  wit  and  the  young 
man  who  asked  him  to  define  George  Meredith's 
position  in  literature?  'Meredith,'  said  the 
other,  pompously,  '  Meredith  is  a  prose  Brown- 
ing,' and  the  young  man  thanked  the  great  man 
for  this  side  light  thrown  on  English  letters, 
when  the  poet  added  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
'  Browning  himself  was  a  prose  Browning.' 
Now,  is  n't  that  delicious,  Miss  Wegstaffe ;  is  n't 
that  —  " 

A  volley  of  hists-hists  and  hushes  came  over  the 
room  as  I  vainly  tried  to  see  the  point  of  Tomp- 
kins' story.  Every  one  laughed  at  his  jokes,  but 
to  me  they  seemed  superficial  and  flippant. 

The  piano  by  this  time  was  being  manipu- 
lated by  a  practical  hand.  Herr  Wunderheim, 
a  Bulgarian  pianist,  was  playing  what  the  pro- 
gramme called  a  sonata  in  X  dur,  by  Tschal- 
kowsky,  op.  47,  A,  B,  C,  D,  E,  F,  G.  I 
listened :  I  did  n't  understand  it  all,  but  I  was 
sitting  next  to  Edith  and  would  have  endured 
261 


MELOMANIACS 

the    remainder    of   the    alphabet    rather   than 
let  Tompkins  gain  one  point. 

The  piano  thundered  and  roared ;  lightning 
flew  over  the  keys,  and  we  were  of  course  elec- 
trified. Herr  Wunderheim  jammed  the  notes  in 
an  astounding  manner,  and  when  he  reached  the 
letter  G  the  sporting  man  said  to  me  in  a  pious 
whisper,  "  Thank  God  !  we  did  n't  go  to  H  - 
altogether,  but  near  it,  my  boy,  near  it !  "  I 
shrugged  my  shoulders  and  longed  for  my  club. 

Mighty  was  the  applause.  Herr  Wunder- 
heim looked  delighted.  Mrs.  Wegstaffe,  sailing 
up  to  the  distinguished  Bulgarian  pianist,  said 
loudly : 

"  Dear  Herr  Wunderheim,  charmed,  I  assure 
you  !  We  are  all  charmed ;  dear  Tschaikowsky, 
charming  man,  charming  composer.  Dear 
Walter  Damrosch  assured  me  that  he  was  quite 
the  gentleman ;  charming  music  altogether !  " 

The  pianist  grew  red  in  the  face.  Then, 
straightening  himself  quite  suddenly,  he  said  in 
tones  that  sounded  like  a  dog  barking : 

"  Dot  vas  n't  Schykufski  I  blayed,  lieber 
madame ;  dot  vas  a  koprice  by  me,  myself." 

Even  the  second  drawing-room  people  stopped 
talking  for  a  minute.  .  .  . 

The  musicale  merrily  proceeded.  We  heard 
the  amateur  tenor  with  the  cravat  voice.  W^ 
heard  the  society  pianist,  who  had  a  graceful 
bow  and  an  amiable  technic ;  then  two  of  Frau, 
Makart's  pupils  sang.  I  could  n't  get  near  the 
262 


THE  VVEGSTAFFES  GIVE  A  MUSICALE 

Italian  contingent,  but  they  chattered  loudly. 
One  of  the  girls  sang  Dvorak's  "  Gute  Nacht," 
and  her  German  made  me  shiver.  The  other 
tried  a  Brahms  song  and  everybody  talked-  I 
turned  to  ask  Edith  the  girl's  name  but  she  had 
gone  —  so  had  Tompkins. 

This  angered  me  but  I  could  n't  get  up  then. 
Opposite  me  was  a  Yankee  college  professor  — 
an  expert  on  golfing  poetry  —  who  had  become 
famous  by  an  essay  in  which  he  proved  that 
Poe  should  not  have  written  Poe ;  next  to  me 
sat  a  fat  lady  who  said  to  her  daughter  as  she 
fanned  herself  vigorously,  "  Horrid  music,  that 
Brahms.  He  wrote  'The  Rustic  Cavalier,'  did  n't 
he  ?  And  some  nasty  critics  said  it  was  written 
byDe-  -" 

"  No,  mamma.  He  wrote  —  "  more  buzzing 
and  I  fled  upstairs. 

The  men's  room  was  crowded  to  suffocation. 
Everybody  was  drinking  hard,  and  old  Wegstaffe 
was  telling  a  story  to  a  group  of  young  men 
among  whom  I  recognized  the  fat  author  of  that 
affected  book  "  How  to  play  Chopin  though 
Happy."  He  was  pretty  far  gone. 

"  Shee  here,  bhoys ;  thish  bloody  music  — 
thish  classhic  music  —  makesh  me  shick  —  I 
mean  tired.  I  played  Bluebottle  for  plashe 
to-day  —  50  to  I  shot  —  whoop  !  " 

Another  bottle  was  opened. 

In  a  corner  they  were  telling  the  story  of 
Herr  Schwillmun,  the  famous  pianist  who  was 
263 


MELOMANIACS 

found  crazy  with  wine  in  a  Fourth  Avenue  under- 
taker's shop  trying  to  play  the  Dvorak  Concerto 
on  the  lid  of  a  highly  polished  coffin.  The 
Finnish  virtuoso  thought  he  was  in  a  piano 
wareroom.  Another  lie,  I  knew,  for  Schwillmun 
was  most  poetic  in  appearance  and  surely  not 
an  intemperate  man ! 

Wherever  I  went  I  heard  nothing  but  mali- 
cious remarks,  slurring  accusations  and  tittle- 
tattle.  Finally  I  joined  a  crowd  in  the  upper 
hall  attracted  by  the  appearance  of  a  white- 
haired  man  of  intelligent  aspect,  who,  with 
kindly  smile  and  abundant  gesture  was  making 
much  merriment  about  him.  I  got  close  enough 
to  hear  what  he  was  saying. 

"  Music  in  New  York !  There  is  none.  You 
fellows  ought  to  work  for  your  grub,  as  I  do, 
on  a  daily,  and  write  up  the  bosh  concerts 
that  advertise.  Humbug,  boys ;  rank  humbug ! 
Modern  music  is  gone  to  the  devil.  Brahms 
was  a  fraud  who  patched  up  a  compound  of 
Beethoven  and  Schumann,  put  in  a  lot  of  mysti- 
fying harmonic  progressions,  and  thought  he 
was  new.  Verdi,  the  later  Verdi  was  helped  out 
by  Boito:  Just  compare  '  Otello  '  and  '  Falstaff' 
with  '  Mefistofele  ' !  Dvof ak,  old  '  Borax  '  as 
they  call  him,  went  in  for  '  nigger '  music  and 
says  there  's  no  future  for  American  music  unless 
it  is  founded  on  plantation  tunes.  Hence  the 
'  coon  '  song  and  its  long  reign.  Tschaikowsky  ! 
Well,  that  tartar  with  his  tom-tom  orchestra 
264 


THE  WEGSTAFFES  GIVE  A  MUSICALE 

makes  me  tired ;  he  should  have  been  locked 
up  in  the  '  Ha-Ha  House.'  Rubinstein  never 
could  do  ten  bars  of  decent  counterpoint.  Saint- 
Saens,  with  his  symphonic  poems,  his  Omphalic 
Roues,  is  a  Gallic  echo  of  Bach  and  Liszt  — 
a  Bach  of  the  Boulevards.  The  English  have 
no  composers ;  the  Americans  never  will  have, 
and,  begad,  sir,  we  "re  all  going  to  the  dogs. 
Music  —  rot !  " 

I  was  shocked.  Here  was  a  great  critic  abus- 
ing the  gods  of  modern  music  and  not  a  dis- 
senting voice  was  raised.  I  determined  to  do 
my  duty.  I  would  ask  this  cynical  old  man 
why  he  belittled  his  profession.  "  Sir !  "  said 
I,  raising  my  voice,  but  got  no  further,  for 
a  household  servant,  whose  breath  reeked, 
caught  me  by  the  arm  and  in  a  whisper  ex- 
plained : 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Trybill,  Miss  Edith  is  a-lookin'  for 
you  everywheres  and  sent  me  to  tell  you  as 
how  you  're  wanted  in  the  music-room.  It 's 
her  turn  next." 

My  heart  sank  below  my  boots  but  I  waded 
downstairs,  spoiling  many  a  te'te-a-te'te  by  my 
haste,  for  which  I  was  duly  and  audibly  exe- 
crated. Why  do  people  at  musicales  flirt  on 
the  stairs? 

Upon  reaching  the  front  drawing-room  I 
found  Edith  taking  her  seat  at  the  demon  piano. 
Tompkins  was  nowhere  visible,  and  I  felt  re- 
lieved. The  guests  looked  worn  out,  and  knots 
265 


MELOMANIACS 

of  men  were  hanging   suspiciously   about   the 
closed  doors  of  the  supper  room. 

The  musical  part  of  the  entertainment  was 
about  over,  Edith's  solo  being  the  very  last. 
Suddenly  all  became  still;  every  one  had  to 
listen  to  the  daughter  of  the  hostess. 

She  looked  positively  radiant.  Her  eyes 
sparkled,  and  of  her  early  nervousness  not  a 
trace  remained. 

"  Do  turn  over  the  leaves  nicely,  that 's  a 
good  fellow,  Mr.  Trybill "  —  again  that  odious 
phrase  —  "I  feel  so  happy  I'm  sure  I'll  play 
well."  Naturally,  I  was  flattered  at  the  in- 
ference. I  was  near  her  —  the  darling  of  my 
wildest  dreams.  Of  course  she  would  play  well, 
and  of  course  I  would  turn  over  the  music  nobly. 

She  began.  The  piece  was  Liszt's  Polonaise 
in  E.  My  brave  girl,  how  proud  I  felt  of  her  as 
she  began.  How  she  rushed  on !  I  could 
scarcely  turn  the  leaves  fast  enough  for  my 
little  girl,  my  wife  that  was  to  be.  How  sweet 
her  face  seemed.  I  was  ravished.  I  must  tell 
her  all  to-night,  and  she  will  put  her  plump 
little  hand  in  mine  and  say,  "  Yes  " ;  the  sweet 
little  — 

Bang !  Smash,  crash-bang !  "  Stupid  fellow, 
I  hate  you  !  "  I  awoke  as  from  a  dream.  Edith 
was  standing  up  and  in  tears.  Alas !  Fatal 
dreamer  that  I  am,  I  had  turned  over  two  pages 
at  once,  and  trouble  ensued,  for  Edith  never 
memorized.  .  .  . 

266 


THE  WEGSTAFFES  GIVE  A  MUSICALE 

As  I  stood  in  horrid  silence  Mrs.  Wegstaffe 
swooped  down  on  Edith  and  took  her  away, 
saying  in  a  harsh  voice,  "  The  young  man 
knows  nothing  of  the  divine  art !  "  Then  the 
supper  signal  was  sounded,  and  a  cyclone's 
fury  was  not  comparable  to  the  rush  and 
crush. 

Old  Wegstaffe,  in  a  very  shaky  condition,  led 
a  gallant  band  of  unsteady  men  in  a  gallop  to 
the  supper  room,  crying,  "  Bluebottle  's  the  horsh 
for  me."  I  lost  heart.  All  my  brilliant  visions 
fled.  As  I  stood  alone  in  the  hall  Mrs.  Wegstaffe 
triumphantly  passed  me  on  the  arm  of  Herr 
Wunderheim.  She  looked  at  me  a  moment,  then, 
seeming  to  pity  my  loneliness,  leaned  toward 
me,  saying  in  acidulously  sweet  accents : 

"  Ah,  no  partner  yet,  Mr.  Trybill  ?  Your 
first  partner  is  engaged,  and  to  Mr.  Tompkins. 
Do  go  in  and  congratulate  him,  that 's  a  good 
fellow." 

She  swam  away  in  the  bedlam  of  shrieks 
and  clattering  of  dishes  and  knives.  I  walked 
firmly  upstairs,  found  my  coat  and  hat,  and 
left  the  house  forever.  It  was  my  first  and  last 
experience  at  that  occidental  version  of  the 
Hara-Kiri,  called  a  musicale. 


267 


THE   IRON   VIRGIN 

For  there  is  order  in  the  streets,  but  in  the  soul  — 
confusion.  —  MAXIM  GORKY. 

THE  carriage  stood  awaiting  them  in  the  Place 
Boieldieu.  Chardon  told  the  coachman  to 
drive  rapidly;  then  closed  the  door  upon 
Madame  Patel  and  himself.  Cautiously  trav- 
ersing the  crowded  boulevards  they  reached 
the  Madeleine ;  a  sharp  turn  to  the  left,  down 
the  Rue  Royale,  they  were  soon  crossing  the 
vast  windy  spaces  of  the  Place  de  la  Concorde 
and  there  he  spoke  to  his  companion. 

"  It  was  a  glorious  victory !  The  Ope>a 
Comique  looked  like  a  battlefield  after  the  con- 
flict." Chardon's  voice  trembled  as  if  with 
timidity.  Madame  Patel  turned  from  the  half- 
opened  window. 

"  Yes,  a  glorious  triumph.  And  he  is  not 
here  to  enjoy  it,  to  exult  over  his  detractors." 
Her  tone  was  bitter  as  winter. 

"  My  poor  friend,"  the  other  answered  as  he 
laid  his  hand  gently  on  her  arm.  She  shud- 
dered. "Are  you  cold?  Shall  I  close  the 
window?"  "  Thanks,  no;  it  is  too  warm.  How 
long  this  ride  seems !  Yet  he  always  de- 
268 


THE   IRON   VIRGIN 

lighted  in  it  after  conducting."  Chardon  was 
silently  polite.  They  were  riding  now  at  high 
speed  along  the  Avenue  Montaigne  which  the 
carriage  had  entered  after  leaving  the  Champs 
Iilysees.  From  the  Quai  de  Billy  to  the  Quai 
de  Passy  their  horses  galloped  over  naked 
well-lighted  avenues.  The  cool  of  the  river 
penetrated  them  and  the  woman  drew  herself 
back  into  the  corner  absorbed  in  depressing 
memories.  Along  Mirabeau  and  Molitor,  after 
passing  the  Avenue  de  Versailles;  and  when 
the  street  called  Boileau  appeared  the  carriage, 
its  lanterns  shooting  tiny  shafts  of  light  on  the 
road,  headed  for  the  Hameau,  named  after  the  old 
poet  of  Auteuil.  There  it  stopped.  Madame 
Patel  and  Chardon,  a  moment  later,  were  walking 
slowly  down  the  broad  avenue  of  trees  through 
which  drawled  the  bourdon  of  the  breeze  this 
night  in  early  May. 

It  was  one  o'clock  when  they  entered  the 
pretty  little  house,  formerly  the  summer  retreat 
of  the  dead  composer  Patel.  A  winner  of  the 
Prix  de  Rome  he  had  produced  many  operas 
and  oratorios  until  his  death,  just  a  year  pre- 
vious to  the  premiere  of  "  The  Iron  Virgin."  Of 
its  immense  success  widow  and  librettist  were  in 
no  doubt.  Had  they  not  witnessed  it  an  hour 
earlier !  Such  furore  did  not  often  occur  at  the 
Comique.  All  recollection  of  Patel's  mediocre 
work  was  wiped  away  in  the  swelter  and  glow 
of  this  passionate  music,  more  modern  than 
269 


MELOMANIACS 

Wagner,  more  brutal  than  Richard  Strauss. 
"  Who  would  have  believed  that  the  old  dried-up 
mummy  had  such  a  volcano  in  his  brain?"  — 
this  the  bereaved  woman  had  overheard  as  she 
descended  the  marble  stairway  of  the  theatre, 
and  Chardon  hurried  her  to  the  carriage  fearing 
that  the  emotions  of  the  evening  —  the  sou- 
venirs of  the  dead,  the  shouting  of  the  audience 
and  the  blaring  of  the  band  as  it  had  saluted  her 
trembling,  bowing  figure  in  the  box  —  finally 
would  prove  too  strong  for  her.  He,  too,  had 
come  in  for  some  of  the  applause,  a  sort  of 
inverted  glory  which  like  a  frosty  nimbus 
envelopes  the  head  of  the  librettist.  Now  he 
recalled  all  this  and  rejoiced  that  his  charge 
was  safely  within  doors. 

Madame  Patel  retained  only  one  servant  in 
her  dignified,  miniature  household,  for  she  was 
not  rich ;  but  the  lamps  were  burning  brightly, 
and  on  the  table  stood  cold  food,  wine  and  fruit. 
The  music-room  was  familiar  to  her  late  hus- 
band's associate.  Patel's  portrait  hung  over  the 
fireplace.  It  represented  in  hard,  shallow  tones 
the  face  of  a  white-haired,  white-bearded  man 
whose  thin  lips,  narrow  nose  and  high  forehead 
proclaimed  him  an  ascetic  of  art.  The  deep- 
set  eyes  alone  told  of  talent  —  their  gaze  in- 
scrutable and  calculating;  a  disappointed  life 
could  be  read  in  every  seam  of  the  brow. 

Near  the  piano,  where  Chardon  turned  as  he 
waited  Madame  Patel's  return  from  her  dressing- 
270 


THE   IRON   VIRGIN 

room,  there  swung  a  picture  whose  violence  was 
not  dissipated  by  the  gloom  of  the  half-hidden 
corner.  He  approached  it  with  a  lamp.  Star- 
ing eyes  saluted  him,  eyes  saturated  with  the 
immitigable  horror  of  life;  eyes  set  in  grotesque 
faces  and  smothered  in  a  sinister  Northern 
landscape.  It  was  one  of  Edvard  Munch's 
ferocious  and  ironic  travesties  of  existence. 
And  on  the  white  margin  of  the  lithograph  the 
artist  had  pencilled :  "  I  stopped  and  leaned 
against  the  balustrade  almost  dead  with  fatigue. 
Over  the  blue-black  fjord  hung  clouds  red  as 
blood  —  as  tongues  of  flame.  My  friends  passed 
on,  and  alone,  trembling  with  anguish,  I  listened 
to  the  great  infinite  cry  of  Nature." 

She  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder.  "  Come," 
she  said  gravely,  "  leave  that  awful  picture  and 
eat.  You  must  be  dead  —  you  poor  man !  " 
Chardon  blushed  happily  until  he  saw  her  cold 
eyes.  "  I  was  trying  to  catch  the  color  of  that 
painter's  mind  —  that  Norwegian,  Munch.  Dis- 
ordered, farouche  as  is  his  style  its  spiritual  note 
enchains  me.  The  title  of  the  picture  means 
nothing,  yet  everything — '  Les  Curieux,'  is  it 
not?  "  "  Yes,  you  know  it  well  enough  by  this 
time.  What  M.  Patel  could  see  in  it  I  can't 
say."  As  she  sat  down  to  the  table  —  not  at 
the  head:  that  was  significantly  empty  —  he  ad- 
mired her  figure,  maidenly  still  despite  her  majes- 
tic bearing ;  admired  the  terse  contour  of  her  head 
and  noticed,  not  without  a  sigh,  her  small  selfish 
271 


MELOMANIACS 

ear.  Madame  Patel  was  nearing  forty  and  her 
November  hair  had  begun  to  whiten,  but  in  her 
long  gray  eyes  was  invincible  youth,  poised, 
self-centred  youth.  She  was  deliberate  in  her 
movements  and  her  complexion  a  clear  brown. 
Chardon  followed  her  example,  eating  and 
drinking,  for  they  were  exhausted  by  the  ordeal 
of  hearing  under  the  most  painful  conditions,  a 
posthumous  opera. 

"The  great,  infinite  cry  of  Nature,"  —  he 
returned  to  the  picture.  "  How  difficult  that 
is  to  get  into  one's  art."  "  Yes,  mon  ami  ;  but 
our  dead  one  succeeded,  did  he  not?"  She 
was  plainly  obsessed  by  the  theme.  "  His 
enemies  —  ah!  the  fools,  fools.  What  a  joy  to 
see  their  astonished  faces !  Did  you  notice  the 
critics,  did  you  notice  Mille  in  particular?  He 
was  in  despair ;  for  years  that  man  pursued  with 
his  rancorous  pen  every  opera  by  M.  Patel." 
She  paused.  "  But  now  he  is  conquered  at  last. 
Ah !  Chardon,  ah !  Robert,  Patel  loved  you, 
trusted  you  —  and  you  helped  him  so  much 
with  your  experience,  your  superior  dramatic 
knowledge,  your  poetic  gifts.  You  have  been  a 
noble  friend  indeed."  She  pressed  his  hand 
while  he  sat  beside  her  in  a  stupor.  "  The 
great,  infinite  cry  of  Nature,"  he  muttered. 
"  And  think  of  his  kindness  to  me,  a  poor  sing- 
er, so  many  years  younger  than  himself!  No 
father  could  have  treated  a  daughter  with  such 
delicacy !  "  .  .  . 

272 


THE   IRON   VIRGIN 

Chardon  looked  up.  "  Yes,"  he  assented, 
"  he  was  very,  very  old  —  too  old  for  such  a 
beautiful  young  wife."  She  started.  "  Not  too 
old,  M.  Chardon,"  she  said,  slightly  raising  her 
contralto  voice :  "  What  if  he  was  thirty  years 
my  senior !  He  married  me  to  spare  me  the 
peril  and  fatigue  of  a  singer's  life ;  few  women 
can  stand  them  —  I  least  of  all.  He  loved  me 
with  a  pure,  narrow  affection.  I  was  his  daugh- 
ter, his  staff.  You,  he  often  called  '  Son.' " 
She  grazed  the  hem  of  tears.  Chardon  was 
touched ;  he  seized  her  large,  shapely  hand, 
firm  and  cold  as  iron,  and  spoke  rapidly. 

"Listen,  Madame  Patel,  listen  Olivie  —  you 
were  like  a  daughter  to  him,  I  know  it,  he  told 
me.  I  was  his  adopted  son.  I  tried  to  repay 
him  for  his  interest  in  a  young,  unknown  poet 
and  composer  —  well,  I  compose  a  bit,  you 
know — and  I  feel  that  I  pleased  him  in  my 
libretto  of  'The  Iron  Virgin.'  You  remember 
the  summer  I  spent  at  Nuremberg  digging  up 
the  old  legend,  and  the  numberless  times  I  vis- 
ited the  torture  chamber  where  stands  the  real 
Iron  Virgin,  her  interior  studded  with  horrid 
spikes  that  cruelly  stabbed  the  wretches  con- 
signed to  her  diabolical  embraces?  You  recall 
all  this?"  he  went  on,  his  vivacity  increasing. 
"  Now  on  the  night  of  the  successful  termination 
of  our  artistic  enterprize,  the  night  when  all 
Paris  is  ringing  with  the  name  of  Patel,  with 
'The  Iron  Virgin'"  —  he  did  not  dare  to  add 
373 


18 


MELO  MANIACS 

his  own  name  —  "let  me  tell  you  what  you 
know  already :  I  love  you,  Olivie.  I  have  always 
loved  you  and  I  offer  you  my  love,  knowing  that 
our  dear  one  —  "  She  dragged  her  hand  from  his 
too  exultant  grasp  and  sat  down  breathless  on  a 
low  couch.  Her  eye  never  left  his  and  he 
wavered  at  the  thought  of  following  her. 

"  So  this  is  the  true  reason  for  your  friend- 
ship ! "  she  protested  in  sorrowful  accents. 
"  For  this  you  cultivated  the  good  graces  of 
an  unsuspecting  old  man."  "  Olivie  !  "  he  ex- 
claimed. "  For  this,"  she  sternly  pursued,  "  you 
sought  my  company  after  his  death.  Oh,  Char- 
don  !  Robert !  How  could  you  be  so  soon  unfaith- 
ful to  the  memory  of  a  man  who  loved  you? 
He  loved  you,  Robert,  he  made  you  !  Without 
him  what  would  you  be?"  "What  am  I?" 
She  did  not  reply  for  she  was  gazing  at  the 
portrait  over  the  fireplace.  "  A  neglected 
genius,"  she  mused.  "  He  was  forced  to  con- 
duct operas  to  support  his  life  —  and  mine. 
Yet  he  composed  a  masterpiece.  He  composed 
'  The  Iron  Virgin.' "  "  Could  he  have  done  it 
without  me?"  Madame  Patel  turned  upon  him: 
"You  ask  such  a  question,  you?"  Chardon 
paced  between  table  and  piano.  He  stopped 
to  look  at  the  Munch  picture  and  bit  his  lips : 
"  The  great,  infinite  cry  of  Nature  !  Much  Patel 
knew  of  music,  of  nature  and  her  infinite  cries." 
His  excitement  increased  with  every  step. 

"  Olivie  Patel,  we  must  come  to  an  understand- 
274 


THE   IRON   VIRGIN 

ing.  You  wonder  at  that  picture,  wonder  what 
dread  thing  is  happening.  Perhaps  the  eyes 
are  looking  into  this  room,  peering  into  our 
souls,  into  my  soul  which  is  black  with  sin  and 
music."  Like  some  timid  men  aroused  he  had  be- 
gun to  shout.  The  woman  half  rose  in  alarm  but 
he  waved  her  back.  His  forehead,  full  of  power, 
an  obstinate  forehead,  wrinkled  with  pain;  his 
hands  —  the  true  index  of  the  soul  —  were 
clasped,  the  fingers  interlocked,  wiry  fingers 
agile  with  pen  and  piano.  "  Hear  me  out, 
Olivie,"  he  commanded.  "•  I  Ve  been  too  good 
a  friend  to  dismiss  because  I  've  offended  your 
sense  of  propriety "  —  she  made  an  indignant 
gesture  —  "well,  your  idea  of  fidelity.  But 
there  is  the  other  side  of  the  slate :  I  Ve  been  a 
faithful  slave,  I  Ve  worked  long  years  for  my  re- 
ward ;  and  disciple  of  Nietzsche  as  I  am,  I  have 
never  attempted  to  assert  my  claims."  "  Your 
claims ! "  she  uttered  scornfully.  "  Yes,  my 
claims,  the  claims  of  a  man  who  sees  his  love 
sacrificed  to  miserable  deception.  Sit  still ! 
You  must  hear  all  now.  I  loved  poetry  but  I 
loved  you  better.  It  was  for  that  I  endured 
everything.  I  spoke  of  my  black  soul  —  it  is 
black,  I  Ve  poisoned  it  with  music,  slowly  pois- 
oned it  until  now  it  must  be  deadened.  Like 
the  opium  eater  I  began  with  small  doses  of  in- 
nocent music :  I  absorbed  Haydn,  Mozart. 
When  Mozart  became  too  mild  I  turned  to  Bee- 
thoven ;  from  Beethoven  to  the  mad  stuff  of 
275 


MELOMANIACS 

Schubert,  Schumann,  Chopin  —  sick  souls  all 
of  them.  They  sustained  me  until  even  they 
failed  to  intoxicate.  My  nerves  needed  music 
that  would  bite — I  found  it  in  Liszt,  Wagner 
and  Tschaikowsky ;  and  like  absinthe-drinkers  I 
was  wretched  without  my  daily  draughts."  "  You 
drink  absinthe  also,  do  you  not?"  she  asked  in 
her  coldest  manner.  He  did  not  notice  her. 
"  My  soul  gradually  took  on  the  color  of  the 
evil  I  sucked  from  all  this  music.  Why?  I 
can't  say;  perhaps  because  a  poet  has  nothing 
in  common  with  music  —  it  usually  kills  the 
poetry  in  him.  That  is  why  I  wonder  what 
music  Edvard  Munch  hears  when  he  paints  such 
pictures.  It  must  be  dire !  Then  Richard 
Strauss  swept  the  torrid  earth  and  my  thirsty 
soul  slaked  itself  in  his  tumultuous  seas.  At 
last  I  felt  sure  I  had  met  my  match.  Your 
husband  was  like  a  child  in  my  hands."  She 
listened  eagerly.  "  I  did  with  him  what  I 
wished  —  but  to  please  you  I  wrote  '  The  Iron 
Virgin.'"  .  .  . 

"  The  book,"  she  calmly  corrected.  "  As  I 
wrote  '  The  Iron  Virgin  '  I  thought  of  you :  You 
were  my  iron  virgin,  you,  the  wife  of  Patel. 
Will  you  hear  the  truth  at  last,  the  truth  about 
a  soul  damned  by  music?  Patel  knew  it.  He 
promised  me  on  his  death-bed  —  "  Olivie  pushed 
by  him  and  stood  in  the  doorway.  He  only 
stared  at  her.  "  You  are  an  Oread,"  he  mum- 
bled, "  you  still  pine  for  your  lost  Narcissus  till 
276 


THE   IRON   VIRGIN 

nothing  is  left  of  you   but  a  voice  —  a  voice 
which  echoes  him,  echoes  Ambroise  Patel." 

She  watched  him  until  his  color  be,gan  to  return. 
"  Robert,"  she  said  almost  kindly,  "  Robert,  the 
excitement  of  to-night  has  upset  your  nerves. 
Drink  some  brandy,  and  sit  down."  He  eyed 
her  piteously,  then  covered  his  face  with  nervous 
hands,  his  hair  falling  over  them.  She  felt 
surer  of  him.  "  You  called  me  an  echo  a  mo- 
ment ago,  Robert,"  she  resumed,  her  voice  deep- 
ening. "  I  can  never  forget  Patel.  And  it  was 
because  of  this  and  because  of  my  last  promise 
to  him  that  your  offer  shocked  me ;  I  ask  your 
pardon  for  my  rudeness.  You  have  been  so  like 
a  brother  for  the  past  years  that  marriage  seems 
sacrilegious.  Come,  let  us  be  friends  —  we  have 
been  trusty  comrades.  '  The  Iron  Virgin  '  is  a 
success  "  —  "  Yes,"  he  whispered,  "  the  iron  vir- 
gin is  always  a  success."  " —  and  why  should  our 
friendship  merely  be  an  echo  of  the  past  ?  Come, 
let  us  be  more  united  than  ever,  Patel,  you  and 
I."  Her  smooth  voice  became  vibrant  as  she 
pointed  triumphantly  at  the  portrait.  He  followed 
her  with  dull  eyes  from  which  all  fire  had  fled. 

"  The  echo,"  he  said,  drinking  a  tumbler  of 
brandy.  "  The  echo  !  I  have  it  now :  they  £e 
the  echo  in  that  picture  back  of  me.  Munch  is 
the  first  man  who  painted  tone ;  put  on  canvas 
that  ape  of  music,  of  our  souls,  the  ape  which 
mocks  us,  leaps  out  after  our  voice,  is  always 
ready  to  follow  us  and  show  its  leering  shape 
277 


MELOMANIACS 

when  we  pass  under  dark,  vaulted  bridges  or 
stand  in  the  secret  shadow  of  churches.  The 
echo  !  What  is  the  echo,  Olivie,  you  discoursed 
of  so  sweetly?  It  is  the  sound  of  our  souls  es- 
caping from  some  fissure  of  the  brain.  It  has 
color,  is  a  living  thing,  the  thin  wraith  that  pur- 
sues man  ever  to  his  grave.  Patel  was  an  echo. 
When  his  soul  leans  naked  against  the  chill  bar 
of  heaven  and  bears  false  witness,  then  his  echo 
will  tell  the  truth  about  his  music  —  this  dam- 
nable reverberating  Doppelgdnger  which  sneaks 
into  corners  and  lies  in  wait  for  our  guilty  glid- 
ing footsteps."  She  began  to  retreat  again ; 
she  feared  him,  feared  the  hypnotism  of  his  sad 
voice.  "  Robert,  I  firmly  believe  that  picture 
has  bewitched  you  —  you,  a  believer  in  the  brave 
philosophy  of  Nietzsche  !  "  He  moved  toward 
her.  "  Madame  Patel,  it  is  you  who  are  the 
cruel  follower  of  Nietzsche.  So  was  the  origi- 
nal iron  virgin ;  so  is  the  new  '  Iron  Virgin ' 
which  I  had  the  honor  to  surround  with  — " 
"  You  mean  instrumentation,"  she  faltered. 
"Ah!  you  acknowledge  so  much?" 

"  Patel  told  me." 

"  He  did  not  tell  you  enough." 
•   Chardon  laughed,  shook  her  hand,  put  on  his 
top-coat  and  descended  the  steps  that  led  into 
the  garden. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  asked  affright- 
edly,  regret  stirring  within  her.     "  To  Nurem- 
berg to  see  the  real  iron  virgin,"  he  answered 
278 


THE   IRON   VIRGIN 

without  sarcasm.  They  looked  hard  into  each 
other's  eyes  —  his  were  glowing  like  restless  red 
coals — and  then  he  plunged  down  the  path 
leaving  her  strained  and  shaken  to  the  very 
centre  of  her  virginal  soul.  Had  he  spoken 
the  truth !  Ambroise  Patel,  upon  whose  grave 
would  be  strown  flowers  that  belonged  to  the  liv- 
ing! It  was  vile,  the  idea.  "Robert !"  she  cried. 
A  smoky,  yellow  morning  mist  hung  over 
Auteuil.  A  long,  slow  rain  fell  softly.  Chardon 
pulled  the  chord  at  the  gate  of  the  Hameau 
roughly  summoning  the  concierge.  He  soon 
found  himself  under  the  viaduct  on  the  Boule- 
vard Exelmans,  where  he  walked  until  he 
reached  Point-du-Jour.  There  a  few  workingmen 
about  to  take  the  circular  railway  to  Batignolles 
regarded  him  cynically.  He  seemed  like  a  man 
in  the  depths  of  a  crazy  debauch.  He  blund- 
ered on  toward  the  Seine.  "  The  echo  !  god  of 
thunders,  the  echo !  "  he  moaned  as  he  heard 
his  steps  resound  in  the  hollow  arches.  Near 
the  water's  edge  he  found  a  caf6  and  sat  before 
a  damp  tin  table.  He  pounded  it  with  his  walk- 
ing stick.  "  The  iron  virgin,"  he  roared ;  and 
laughed  at  the  joke  until  the  tears  rolled  over  his 
tremulous  chin.  Lifting  his  inflamed  eyes  to 
the  dirty  little  waiter  he  again  brought  his  cane 
heavily  upon  the  table.  "  Gargon,"  he  clamored 
"  the  iron  virgin !  "  The  waiter  brought  ab- 
sinthe ;  Chardon  drank  five.  Doggedly  he 
began  his  long  journey. 
279 


DUSK   OF  THE   GODS 

A   MASQUE   OF   MUSIC 

STANNUM  invited  the  pianist  to  his  apartment 
several  times,  but  concert  engagements  inter- 
vened, and  when  Herr  Bech  actually  appeared 
his  host  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  his  pleasure. 
He  admired  the  playing  of  the  distinguished 
virtuoso,  and  said  so  privately  and  in  print. 
Bech  was  a  rare  specimen  of  that  rapidly  disap- 
pearing order  —  the  artist  who  knows  all  com- 
posers equally  well.  Not  poetic,  nor  yet  a 
pedantic  classicist,  he  played  Bach  and  Brahms 
with  intellectual  clearness  and  romantic  fervor. 
All  these  things  Stannum  noted,  and  the  heart 
of  him  grew  elate  as  Bech  sat  down  to  the  big 
concert  piano  that  stood  in  the  middle  of  his 
studio.  It  was  a  room  of  few  lights  and  lofty, 
soft  shadows;  and  the  air  was  as  free  from 
sound  as  a  diving  bell.  Stannum  leaned  back 
on  his  wicker  couch  smoking  a  cigar,  while  the 
pianist  made  broad  preludes  in  many  keys.  .  .  . 

The  music,  from  misty  weavings,  tentative 
gropings  in  remote  tonalities,  soon  resolved 
itself  into  the  fluid  affirmations  of  Bach's  Chro- 
280 


DUSK  OF  THE   GODS 

matic  Fantasia.  Stannum  noticed  the  burnished, 
argent  surface  of  an  old-fashioned  Egyptian 
mirror  of  solid  tin  hanging  in  front  of  him,  and 
saw  in  leaden  shadows  his  features,  dim  and 
distorted.  Being  a  man  of  astrological  lore  he 
mused,  and  presently  mumbled,  "  Tin  is  the 
sign  of  Jupiter  in  alchemy  and  stands  for  the 
god  of  Juno  and  Thunders,"  and  immediately 
begged  Bech's  pardon  for  having  interrupted 
him.  The  pianist  made  no  sign,  having  reached 
the  fugue  following  the  prelude.  Stannum  again 
speculated,  his  head  supported  by  his  hands. 
He  stared  into  the  tinny  surface,  and  it  seemed 
to  take  on  new  echoes  of  light  and  shade,  follow- 
ing the  chromatic  changes  of  the  music.  .  .  . 
Presently  rose  many-colored  smoke,  as  if  ex- 
haled from  the  enchantments  of  some  oriental 
mage,  and  Stannum's  eyes  strove  to  penetrate 
the  vaporous  thickness.  He  plunged  his  gaze 
into  its  tinted  steamy  volutes,  and  struggled 
with  it  until  it  parted  and  fell  away  from  him 
like  the  sound  of  falling  waters.  He  could  not 
see  the  source  of  the  great  roaring — the  roaring 
of  some  cosmical  cataract.  He  pushed  boldly 
through  the  dense  thunder-world  into  the 
shadow  land,  still  knew  that  he  lived.  A  few  feet 
away  was  his  chamber  wherein  Bech  played  Bach. 
Faintly  the  air  cleared,  yet  never  stopped  the 
terrifying  hum  that  attracted  his  attention.  And 
now  Stannum  stood  on  the  Cliff  of  the  World, 
saw  and  heard  the  travailing  and  groaning  of  light 
281 


MELOMANIACS 

and  sound  in  the  epochal  and  reverberating  Void. 
A  pedal  bass,  a  diapasonic  tone,  that  came  from 
the  bowels  of  the  firmament  struck  fear  to  his 
heart ;  the  tone  was  of  such  magnitude  as  might 
be  overheard  by  the  gods.  No  mortal  ear  could 
have  held  it  without  cracking  and  dying.  This 
gigantic  flood,  this  overwhelming  and  cataclys- 
mic roar,  filled  every  pore  of  Stannum's  body. 
It  blew  him  as  a  blade  of  grass  is  blown  in  a 
boreal  blast;  yet  he  sensed  the  pitch.  Unor- 
ganized nature,  the  unrestrained  cry  of  the  rocks 
and  their  buried  secrets;  crushed  aspirations, 
and  the  hidden  worlds  of  plant,  mineral,  ani- 
mal, and  human,  became  vocal.  It  was  the 
voice  of  the  monstrous  abortions  of  nature,  the 
groan  of  the  incomplete,  experimental  types, 
born  for  a  day  and  shattered  forever.  All  God's 
mud  made  moan  for  recognition ;  and  Stannum 
was  sorrowful.  .  .  . 

Light,  its  vibrations  screeching  into  thin  and 
acid  flame-music,  transposed  his  soul.  He  saw 
the  battle  of  the  molecules,  the  partitioning 
asunder  of  the  elements ;  saw  sound  falling  far 
behind  its  lighter-winged,  fleeter-footed  brother ; 
saw  the  inequality  of  this  race,  "  swifter  than 
the  weaver's  shuttle,"  and  felt  that  he  was 
present  at  the  very  beginnings  of  Time  and 
Space.  Like  unto  some  majestic  comet  that 
in  passing  had  blazed  out  "Be  not  light;  be 
sound !  "  the  fire-god  mounted  to  the  blue  basin 
of  Heaven  and  left  time  behind,  but  not  space; 
282 


DUSK   OF  THE   GODS 

for  in  space  sound  abides  not  and  cycles  may  be 
cancelled  in  a  tone.  Thus  sound  was  born,  and 
of  it  rhythm,  the  planets  portioning  it;  and 
from  rhythm  came  music,  primordial,  mad,  yet 
music,  and  Stannum  heard  it  as  a  single  tone 
that  never  ceased,  a  tone  that  jarred  the  sun 
with  mighty  concussions,  ruled  the  moon,  and 
made  rise  etheric  waves  upon  the  rim  of  the 
interstellar  milky  way.  Then  quired  the  morning 
stars,  and  at  their  concordance  Stannum  was 
affrighted.  .  .  . 

His  ear  was  become  a  monstrous  labyrinth,  a 
cortical  lute  of  three  thousand  strings,  and  upon 
it  impacted  the  early  music  at  the  dawn  of 
things.  In  the  planetary  slime  he  heard  the 
screaming  struggles  of  fishy  beasts ;  in  the 
tanglewood  of  hot,  aspiring  forests  were  muffled 
roarings  of  gigantic  mastodons,  of  tapirs  that 
humped  at  the  sky,  beetles  big  as  camels,  and 
crocodiles  with  wings.  Wicked  creatures  snarled 
crepitantly,  and  their  crackling  noises  were 
echoed  by  lizard  and  dragon,  ululating  snouted 
birds  and  hissing  leagues  of  snaky  lengths. 
Stannum  fled  from  these  disturbing  dreams  seek- 
ing safety  in  the  mountains.  The  tone  pursued 
him,  but  he  felt  that  it  had  a  less  bestial  quality. 
Casting  his  eyes  upon  the  vague  plateau  below 
he  witnessed  two-legged  creatures  pursuing  game 
with  stone  hatchets ;  while  in  the  tropical- 
colored  tree-tops  nudging  apes  eyed  the  contest 
with  malicious  regard.  The  cry  of  the  pursuers 
283 


MELOMANIACS 

had  a  suggestive  sound ;  occasionally  as  one 
fell  the  shriek  that  reached  Stannum  plucked 
at  his  heart,  for  it  was  a  cry  of  human  distress. 
He  went  down  the  mountain,  but  lost  his  way, 
his  only  clue  in  the  obscurity  of  the  woods 
being  the  tone.  .  .  . 

And  now  he  heard  a  strange  noise,  a  noise  of 
harsh  stones  bruised  together  and  punctuated 
with  shouts  and  sobbings.  There  was  rhyth- 
mic rise  and  fall  in  the  savage  music,  and 
soon  he  came  upon  a  sudden  secret  glade  of 
burial.  Male  and  female  slowly  postured  before 
a  fire,  scraping  flints  as  they  solemnly  circled 
their  dead  one.  Stannum,  fascinated  at  this 
revelation  of  primeval  music,  watched  until  the 
tone  penetrated  his  being  and  haled  him  to  it, 
as  is  haled  the  ship  to  the  whirlpool.  It  was 
night.  The  strong  fair  sky  of  the  south  was 
sown  with  dartings  of  silver  and  starry  dust. 
He  walked  under  the  great  wind-bowl  with  its 
few  balancing  clouds  and  listened  to  the  whir- 
rings  of  the  infinite.  A  dreamer  ever,  he  knew 
that  he  was  near  the  core  of  existence;  and 
while  light  was  more  vibratile  than  sound,  sound 
touched  Earth,  embraced  it  and  was  content 
with  its  eld  and  homely  face.  Light,  a  mis- 
chievous Loge:  Sound,  the  All-Mother  Erda. 
He  walked  on.  His  way  seemed  clearer.  .  .  . 

Reaching  a  mighty  and  fabulous  plain,  half 
buried  in  sand  he  came  upon  a  great  Sphinx, 
looming  in  the  starlight.  He  watched  her  face 
284 


DUSK   OF   THE   GODS 

and  knew  that  the  tone  enveloped  him  no 
longer.  Why  it  had  ceased  set  him  to  wonder- 
ing not  unmixed  with  fear.  The  dawn  filtered 
over  the  head  of  the  Sphinx,  and  there  were 
stirrings  in  the  sky.  From  afar  a  fluttering  of 
thin  tones  sounded ;  as  the  sun  shone  rosy  on 
the  vast  stone  the  tone  came  back  like  a  clear- 
colored  wind  from  the  sea.  And  in  the  music- 
filled  air  he  fell  down  and  worshipped  the 
Sphinx ;  for  music  is  a  window  that  looks  upon 
eternity.  .  .  . 

Then  followed  a  strange  musical  rout  of  the 
nations.  Stannum  saw  defile  before  him  Silence, 
"  eldest  of  all  things  "  ;  Brahma's  consort  Sara- 
swati  fingered  her  Vina;  and  following,  Siva 
and  his  hideous  mate  Devi,  who  is  sometimes 
called  Durga ;  and  the  brazen  heavens  turned 
to  a  typhoon  that  showered  appalling  evils 
upon  mankind.  All  the  gods  of  Egypt  and 
Assyria,  dog-faced,  moon-breasted  and  menac- 
ing, passed,  playing  upon  dreams,  making 
choric  music  black  and  fuliginous.  The  sacred 
Ibis  stalked  to  the  silvery  steps  of  the  Houris ; 
the  Graces  held  hands.  Phoebus  Apollo  ap- 
peared ;  his  face  was  as  a  silver  shield,  so 
shining  was  it.  He  improvised  upon  a  many- 
stringed  lyre  made  of  tortoise  shell,  and  his 
music  was  shimmering  and  symphonious. 
Hermes  and  his  Syrinx  wooed  the  shy  Euterpe ; 
the  maidens  went  in  woven  paces :  a  medley  of 
masques  flamed  by;  and  the  great  god  Pan 
285 


MELOMANIACS 

breathed  into  his  pipes.  Stannum  saw  Bacchus 
pursued  by  the  ravening  Maenads;  saw  Lamia 
and  her  ophidian  flute ;  and  sorrowfully  sped 
Orpheus  searching  for  his  Eurydice.  Neptune 
blew  his  wreathed  horn,  the  Tritons  gambolled  in 
the  waves,  Cybele  clanged  her  cymbals ;  and  with 
his  music  Amphion  summoned  rocks  to  Thebes. 
Jephtha's  daughter  danced  to  her  death  before 
the  Ark  of  the  Covenant,  praising  the  Lord  God 
of  Israel.  Behind  her  leered  unabashed  the 
rhythmic  Herodias;  while  were  heard  the 
praiseful  songs  of  Deborah  and  Barak,  as 
Caecilia  smote  her  keys.  Miriam  with  her 
timbrel  sang  songs  of  triumph.  Abyssinian  girls 
swayed  alluringly  before  the  Persian  Satrap  in 
his  purple  litter;  the  air  was  filled  with  the 
crisp  tinklings  of  tiny  bells  at  wrist  and  anklet 
as  the  Kabaros  drummed ;  and  hard  by,  in  the 
brake,  brown  nymphs,  their  little  breasts  pointing 
to  the  zenith,  moved  in  languorous  rhythms, 
droning  hoarse  sacrificial  chaunts.  The  colos- 
sus Memnon  hymned  ;  priests  of  Baal  screamed 
as  they  lacerated  themselves  with  knives ; 
Druid  priestesses  crooned  sybillic  incantations. 
And  over  this  pageant  of  woman  and  music  the 
proud  sun  of  old  Egypt  scattered  splendid 
burning  rays.  .  .  . 

From  distant  strands  and  hillsides  came  the 

noise  of  strange  and  unholy   instruments  with 

sweet-sounding    and    clashing   names.      Nofres 

from  the  Nile,  Ravanastrons  of  Ceylon,  Javanese 

286 


DUSK   OF  THE   GODS 

gongs,  Pavilions  from  China,  Tambourahs,  Sack- 
buts,  Shawms,  Psalteries,  Dulcimers,  Salpinxes, 
Keras,  Timbrels,  Sistras,  Crotalas,  double  flutes, 
twenty-two  stringed  harps,  Kerrenas,  the  Indian 
flute  called  Yo  and  the  quaint  Yamato-Koto. 
Then  followed  the  Biwa,  the  Gekkin  and  its 
cousin  the  Genkwan ;  the  Ku,  named  after  the 
hideous  god ;  the  Shunga  and  its  cluttering 
strings ;  the  Samasien,  the  Kokyu,  the  Yamato 
Fuye  —  which  breathed  moon-eyed  melodies  — 
the  Hichi-Riki  and  the  Shaku-Hachi.  The  Sho 
was  mouthed  by  slant- haired  yellow  boys ;  while 
the  sharp  roll  of  drums  covered  with  goat-skins 
never  ceased.  From  this  bedlam  there  occa- 
sionally emerged  a  splinter  of  tune,  like  a  plank 
thrown  up  by  the  sea.  Stannum  could  discern 
no  melody,  though  he  grasped  its  beginnings ; 
double  flutes  gave  him  the  modes,  Dorian, 
Phrygian,  ./Eolian,  Lydian  and  Ionian ;  after 
Sappho  and  her  Mixolydian  mode,  he  longed 
for  a  modern  accord.  .  .  . 

The  choir  went  whirling  by  with  Citharas,  Re- 
becs, Citoles,  Domras,  Goules,  Serpents,  Crwths, 
Pentachords,  Rebabs,  Pantalons,  Conches,  Fla- 
geolets made  of  Pelicon  bones,  Tam-Tams,  Caril- 
lons, Xylophones,  Crescents  of  beating  bells, 
Mandoras,  Whistling  Vases  of  Clay,  Zampognas, 
Zithers,  Bugles,  Octochords,  Naccaras  or  Turk- 
ish castanets  and  Quinternas.  He  heard  blare 
the  two  hundred  thousand  curved  trumpets  which 
Solomon  had  made  for  his  temple,  and  the  forty 
287 


MELOMANIACS 

thousand  which  accompanied  the  Psalms  of 
David.  Jubal  played  his  Magrepha;  Pythag- 
oras came  with  his  Monochord ;  Plato  listened 
to  the  music  of  the  spheres;  the  priests  of 
Joshua  blew  seven  times  upon  their  Shofars  or 
Rams-Horns.  And  the  walls  of  Jericho  fell. 

To  this  came  a  challenging  blast  from  the 
terrible  horn  of  Roland  —  he  of  Roncesvalles. 
The  air  had  the  resonance  of  hell,  as  the  Guate- 
malan Indians  worshipped  their  black  Christ 
upon  the  plaza;  and  naked  Istar,  Daughter  of 
Sin,  stood  shivering  before  the  Seventh  Gate. 
Then  a  great  silence  fell  upon  Stannum.  He 
saw  a  green  star  drop  over  Judea,  and  thought 
music  itself  slain.  The  pilgrims  with  their  Jews- 
harps  dispersed  into  sorrowful  groups ;  black- 
ness usurped  the  sonorous  sun:  there  was  no 
music  upon  all  the  earth  and  this  tonal  eclipse 
lasted  long.  Stannum  heard  in  his  magic  mir- 
ror the  submerged  music  of  Dufay,  Ockeghem, 
Josquin  Depres  and  Orlando  di  Lasso,  Goudi- 
mel  and  Luther;  the  cathedral  tones  of 
Palestrina;  the  frozen  sweetness  of  Arezzo, 
Frescobaldi,  Monteverde,  Carissimi,  Tartini, 
Correlli,  Scarlatti,  Jomelli,  Pergolese,  Lulli, 
Rameau,  Couperin,  Buxtehude,  Sweelinck, 
Bryd,  Gibbons,  Purcell,  Bach :  with  their  Lutes, 
Monochords,  Virginals,  Harpsichords,  Clavi- 
cytherums,  Clavichords,  Cembalos,  Spinets, 
Theorbos,  Organs  and  Piano-fortes  and  accom- 
panying them  was  an  army,  vast  and  formidable, 
288 


DUSK   OF   THE   GODS 

of  all  the  immemorial  virtuosi,  singers,  castrati, 
the  night  moths  and  midgets  of  music.  Like 
wraiths  they  waved  desperate  ineffectual  hands 
and  made  sad  mimickings  of  their  dead  and 
dusty  triumphs.  .  .  .  Stannum  again  heard  the 
Bach  Chromatic  Fantasia  which  seemed  old  yet 
very  new.  In  its  weaving  sonant  patterns  were 
the  detonations  of  the  primeval  world  he  had 
left;  and  something  strangely  disquieting  and 
feminine.  But  the  man  in  Bach  predominates, 
subtle,  magnetic  and  nervous  as  he  is. 

A  mincing,  courtly  old  woman  bows  low.  It 
is  Haydn,  and  there  is  sprightly  malice  in  his 
music.  The  glorious  periwigged  giant  of  Halle 
conducts  a  chorus  of  millions;  Handel's  hail- 
stones rattle  upon  the  pate  of  the  Sphinx.  "  A 
man  !  "  cries  Stannum,  as  the  heavens  storm  out 
their  cadenced  hallelujahs.  The  divine  youth 
approaches.  His  mien  is  excellent  and  his 
voice  of  rare  sweetness.  His  band  discourses 
ravishing  music.  The  tone  is  there,  feminized 
and  graceful ;  troupes  of  stage  players  in 
paint  and  furbelows  give  startling  pictures  of 
rakes  and  fantastics.  An  orchestra  mimes  as 
Mozart  disappears.  .  .  . 

Behold,  the  great  one  approaches  and  the 
earth  trembles  at  his  tread  —  Beethoven,  the 
sublime,  the  conqueror,  the  demi-god  !  All  that 
has  gone  before,  all  that  is  to  be,  is  globed  in  his 
symphonies,  is  divined  by  the  seer :  a  man,  the 
first  since  Handel.  And  the  eagles  triumphantly 
'9  289 


MELOMANIACS 

jostle  the  scarred  face  of  the  Sphinx.  .  .  .  Then 
appear  Von  Weber  and  Meyerbeer,  player  folk ; 
Schubert,  a  pan-pipe  through  which  the  wind  dis- 
courses exquisite  melodies ;  Gluck,  whose  lyre  is 
stringed  Greek  fashion,  but  bedecked  with  Paris 
gauds  and  ribbons;  Mendelssohn,  a  charming 
girlish  echo,  Hebraic  of  profile ;  Schumann  and 
Chopin,  romantic  wrestlers  with  muted  dreams, 
strugglers  against  ineffable  madness  and  stricken 
sore  at  the  end ;  Berlioz,  a  primitive  Roc,  half 
monster,  half  human,  a  Minotaur  who  dragged  to 
his  Crete  all  the  music  of  the  masters ;  and  then 
comes  the  Turk  of  the  keyboard,  Franz  Liszt, 
with  cymbalom,  cfzardas  and  crazy  Kalamaikas. 
But  now  Stannum  notices  a  shriller  accent, 
the  accent  of  a  sun  that  has  lost  its  sex  and 
is  stricken  with  soft  moon-sickness.  A  Hybrid 
appears,  followed  by  a  vast  cohort  of  players. 
The  orchestra  begins  playing,  and  straightway 
the  Sphinx  smiles.  .  .  . 

Stannum  saw  what  man  had  never  seen  before 
—  the  tone-color  of  each  instrument.  Some 
malign  enchanter  had  seduced  and  diverted 
from  its  natural  uses  the  noble  instrumental 
army.  He  saw  strings  of  rainbow  hues,  red 
trumpets,  blue  flutes,  green  oboes,  garnet  clar- 
inets, golden  yellow  horns,  dark-brown  bas- 
soons, scarlet  trombones,  carmilion  ophecleides 
while  the  drums  punctured  space  with  ebon 
holes.  That  the  triangle  had  always  been  silver 
he  never  questioned;  but  this  new  chromatic 
290 


DUSK  OF  THE   GODS 

blaze,  this  new  tinting  of  tones  —  what  did  it  por- 
tend? Was  it  a  symbol  of  the  further  degra- 
dation and  effeminization  of  music  ?  Was  art  a 
woman's  sigh  ?  A  new,  selfish  goddess  was  about 
to  be  placed  upon  high  and  worshipped  — 
soon  the  rustling  of  silk  would  betray  her  sex. 
Released  from  the  wise  bonds  imposed  upon  her 
by  Mother  Church,  music  is  a  novel  parasite  of 
the  emotions,  a  modern  Circe  whose  feet  "  take 
hold  on  hell,"  whose  wand  transforms  men  into 
listening  swine.  Gigantic  as  antediluvian  ferns, 
as  evil-smelling  and  as  dangerous,  music  in  the 
hands  of  this  magician  is  dowered  with  ambig- 
uous attitudes,  with  anonymous  gestures,  is 
color  become  sound,  sensuality  in  the  mask  of 
Beauty.  This  Klingsor  tears  down,  evirates, 
effeminates  and  disintegrates.  He  is  the  great 
denier  of  all  things  natural,  and  his  revengeful, 
theatric  music  is  in  the  guise  of  a  woman.  The 
art  nears  its  end ;  its  spiritual  suicide  is  at  hand. 
Stannum  lifted  his  gaze.  Surely  he  recognized 
that  little  dominating  figure  directing  the  orches- 
tra. Was  it  the  tragic-comedian  Richard  Wag- 
ner ?  Were  those  his  ardent,  mocking  eyes  fading 
in  the  mist?  A  fat  cowled  monk  marches 
stealthily  after  Wagner.  He  shades  his  eyes  from 
the  fierce  rays  of  the  noonday  sun ;  more  grate- 
ful to  him  are  moon-rays  and  the  reflected  light 
of  lonely  pools.  He  is  the  Arch-Hypocrite  of 
Tone  who  speaks  in  divers  tongues.  It  is 
Johannes  Brahms,  and  he  wears  the  mask  of  a 
291 


MELOMANIACS 

musical  masker.  .  .  .  Then  swirled  near  a  band 
of  gypsies  and  moors,  with  guitars,  tambourines, 
mandolins  and  castanets,  led  by  Bizet;  Africa 
seemed  familiar  land.  Gounod  and  his  simpering 
"  Faust "  went  on  tiptoe  ;  a  horde  of  Calmucks 
and  Cossacks  stampeded  them,  Tschaikowsky  and 
Rimski-Korsakoff  at  their  head.  These  yelled 
and  played  upon  resounding  Svirelis,  Bala- 
laikas, and  Kobzas  dancing  the  Ziganka  all  the 
while;  and  as  a  still  more  horrible  uproar  fell 
upon  Stannum's  ears,  he  was  aware  of  a  change 
in  the  face  of  the  Sphinx :  streaked  with  gray,  it 
seemed  to  be  crumbling.  As  the  clatter  in- 
creased Stannum  diverted  his  regard  from  the 
great  stone  and  beheld  an  orgiastic  mob  of  men 
and  women  howling  and  playing  upon  instru- 
ments of  fulgurating  colors  and  vile  shapes. 
Their  skins  were  of  white,  their  hair  yellow,  and 
their  eyes  of  victorious  blue.  "  Nietzsche's 
Great  Blond  Barbarians,  the  Apes  of  Wagner !  " 
exclaimed  Stannum,  and  he  felt  the  earth  falling 
away  from  him.  The  naked  music,  pulsatile  and 
drowsy,  turned  hysterical  as  Zarathustra-Strauss 
waved  on  his  Ubermensch  with  an  iron  hammer 
and  in  frenzied,  philosophic  motions.  Music 
was  become  vertiginous ;  a  mad  vortex,  wherein 
whirled  mad  atoms,  madly  embracing.  Danc- 
ing, the  dissonant  corybantes  of  the  Dionysian 
evangel  flitted  by,  scarce  touching  earth  in  their 
efforts  to  outvie  the  Bacchantes.  With  peals  of 
thunderous  and  ironical  laughter  the  Sphinx 
292 


DUSK  OF  THE   GODS 

sank  into  the  murmuring  sand,  yawning,  "  Music 
is  Woman."  .  .  . 

And  then  the  tone  grew  higher  and  ultra-vio- 
let ;  the  air  darkened  with  vapors ;  the  shrillness 
was  so  exceeding  that  it  modulated  into  Hert- 
zian waves  and  merged  into  light;  this  vibratile, 
argent  light  pierced  Stannum's  eyes.  He  found 
himself  staring  into  the  Egyptian  mirror  while 
about  him  beat  the  torrential  harmonies  of 
Richard  Strauss.  .  .  .  Herr  Bech  had  just 
finished  his  playing,  and,  as  he  struck  the  last 
chord  of  "  Death  and  Transfiguration,"  acidly 
remarked : 

"  Tin  must  be  a  great  hypnotizer,  lieber 
Stannum  !  " 

"  In  alchemy,  my  dear  Bech,  tin  is  the  sign  of 
Jove,  and  Jove,  you  know,  hath  power  to  evoke 
apocalyptic  visions !  " 

"  Both  you  and  your  Jove  are  fakirs  !  "  The 
pianist  then  went  away  in  a  rage  because  Stan- 
num had  slept  while  he  played. 


293 


SIEGFRIED'S    DEATH 


But,  as  you  will !  we  '11  sit  contentedly, 
And  eat  our  pot  of  honey  on  the  grave. 

—  GEORGE  MEREDITH. 


IT  was  finally  arranged  that  the  two  women 
should  not  be  present  together  at  the  funeral. 
The  strain  might  prove  too  great ;  and  as  Mar- 
soc  wiped  his  forehead  he  congratulated  himself 
that  for  the  present  at  least  a  horrid  scandal 
might  be  averted.  He  had  pleaded  in  a  most 
forceful  manner  with  Selene,  his  sister,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  his  arguments  had  taken 
root.  Ever  since  Brazier's  death  there  had  been 
much  talking,  much  visiting  —  and  now  he  felt 
it  soon  would  end.  Oh,  for  the  relief  of  a 
quiet  house ;  for  the  relief  that  must  follow  when 
the  newspaper  men  would  stop  haunting  the 
neighborhood.  The  past  two  days  had  well-nigh 
worn  him  out,  and  yet  he  hated  leaving  Selene 
to  face  her  troubles  alone.  Marsoc  believed  in 
blood  and  all  its  entailed  obligations.  .  .  . 

The  pitiless  comment  of  the  press  he  had  hid- 
den from  his  sister,  but  the  visit  of  the  other 
woman  was  simply  unavoidable.  There  were  cer- 
tain rights  not  to  be  ignored,  and  the  perfidy  of 
294 


SIEGFRIED'S    DEATH 

the  dead  man  placed  beyond  Marsoc's  power  all 
hopes  of  reprisal.  Brazier  had  acted  badly,  but 
then,  too,  he  had  been  forced  by  a  fatal  tempera- 
ment into  a  false  position  —  a  position  from 
which  only  sudden  death  could  rout  him ;  and 
death  had  not  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  his  appeal. 
It  came  with  implacable  swiftness  and  with  one 
easy  blow  created  two  mourning  women,  a  world 
of  surmise  and  much  genuine  indignation. 

Selene  sent  for  her  brother.  He  went  to  her 
chamber  in  rather  a  doubting  mood.  If  there 
was  to  be  any  more  backing  and  rilling,  any  new 
programme,  then  he  must  be  counted  out.  He 
had  accepted  his  share  of  the  trouble  that  had 
thrust  itself  into  their  life,  and  could  endure  no 
more.  On  this  point  he  solemnly  assured  him- 
self as  he  knocked  at  Selene's  door.  To  his 
quick  gaze  she  did  not  appear  to  be  downcast  as 
on  the  night  before. 

"  I  sent  for  you,  my  dear  Val,"  she  said  in 
rather  acid  tones,  "  because  I  wanted  to  reassure 
you  about  to-morrow  morning.  I  have  consid- 
ered the  matter  a  hundred  times  and  have  made 
up  my  mind  that  I  shall  not  allow  Bellona 
Brydges  to  sit  alone  at  the  head  of  his  coffin  — 

"  But  you  said  —  "  interrupted  her  brother. 

"  I  know  I  said  lots  of  things,  but  please  re- 
member that  Sig  Brazier  was  my  husband,  quite 
as  much,  if  not  more  than  Belle's,  that  he  com- 
mitted —  that  he  died  under  our  roof,  and  sim- 
ply because  the  divorce  laws  of  this  country  are 
295 


MELOMANIACS 

idiotic  is  no  reason  why  I  should  abdicate  my 
rights  as  a  wife  —  at  least  his  last  wife.  If  Belle 
attempts  her  grand  airs  or  begins  to  lord  it  over 
me  I  '11  make  a  scene  —  " 

Marsoc  groaned.  He  knew  that  his  sister  was 
capable  of  making,  not  one,  but  half  a  dozen 
scenes  with  a  well  defined  tragic  crescendo  at 
the  close  of  each.  The  situation  was  fast  be- 
coming unbearable.  With  a  gesture  of  despair 
he  turned  to  leave  the  room  but  Selene  de- 
tained him. 

"  You  poor  fellow,  how  you  do  worry  !  But 
it  is  all  your  fault.  You  introduced  Sig  here  — " 

"  How  the  deuce  did  I  know  that  he  had  a 
wife  up  in  the  hills  somewhere?  "  cried  Marsoc. 

"  Very  true ;  but  you  knew  of  his  habits," 
his  sister  rejoined  gently.  "  You  knew  what  a 
boastful,  vain,  hard-drinking,  immoral  man  he 
was,  and  at  least  you  might  have  warned  me." 

"  What  good  would  that  have  done  ? "  asked 
her  brother,  in  heated  accents.  .  .  .  He  was 
tall,  very  blond  and  his  eyes  were  hopelessly 
blue.  Brother  and  sister  they  were  — that  a  dog 
might  have  discovered  —  but  there  was  more  re- 
serve, chilliness  of  manner,  coldness  in  the 
woman.  She  could  never  give  herself  to  any 
one  or  anything  with  the  same  vigor  as  Val. 
She  lacked  enthusiasms  and  had  a  doubtful 
temper.  Even  now,  as  they  faced  each  other, 
she  forced  him  to  drop  his  eyes ;  then  the  door- 
bell rang. 

296 


SIEGFRIED'S  DEATH 

"  If  it 's  Belle,  send  her  up  at  once.  Run,  Val, 
and  see."  Selene  almost  pushed  her  brother 
down  the  short  flight  that  led  to  the  landing  on 
the  second  floor.  The  house  was  old-fashioned, 
the  drawing-room  upstairs.  Val  went  down 
grumbling  and  wondering  what  sort  of  a  girl 
was  his  sister.  He  almost  ran  into  a  woman 
dressed  in  deep  mourning. 

"Why,  Belle — why,  Mrs.  Brazier,  is  that 
you  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  and  then  felt  like  biting 
his  tongue. 

Bellona  Brydges  was  as  big  as  Briinnhilde  and 
dark  as  Carmen.  Her  tread  was  majestic  and 
her  black  eyes,  aquiline  nose  and  firm,  large- 
lipped  mouth,  gave  an  expression  of  power  to 
her  countenance.  Her  bearing  was  one  of  com- 
mand, her  voice  as  rich  as  an  English  horn,  and 
her  manner  forthright. 

"  Never  mind  the  Brazier  part  of  it,  Val,"  she 
replied,  in  an  off-hand,  unembarrassed  tone.  "  I 
want  to  see  Selene  and  have  this  dreadful  busi- 
ness over  before  the  funeral.  Where  is  she  ?  " 

Val  motioned  upstairs  and  the  clear  voice  of 
his  sister  was  heard  : 

"  Is  that  you,  Belle?  Come  up  right 
away.  .  .  ." 

II 

Both  women  were  dry-eyed  as  they  embraced. 
Belle  showed  signs  of  fatigue,  so  Selene  made 
her  comfortable  on  the  divan. 
297 


MELOMANIACS 

"Shall  I  ring  for  tea,  Belle?"  The  other 
nodded.  Then  she  burst  forth :  "  And  to  think, 
Selene,  to  think  that  we  should  be  the  unlucky 
victims.  To  think  that  my  dearest  friend  should 
be  the  wife  of  my  husband."  She  began  to  laugh. 
Selene  would  not  smile.  The  tea  was  brought 
by  a  man-servant,  who  did  not  lift  his  eyes,  but 
the  corners  of  his  mouth  twitched  when  he 
turned  his  back.  Belle  sipping  the  hot,  com- 
forting drink  looked  about  her  curiously.  The 
apartment  reflected  unity  of  taste.  It  was 
rather  low,  and  long,  the  ceiling  panelled  and 
covered  with  dull  gilt  arabesques.  The  walls 
were  hung  with  soft  material  upon  which  were 
embroidered  fugitive  figures  heavily  powdered 
with  gold  dust.  One  wide  window  with  a  low  sill 
covered  the  end  of  this  room,  and  over  the  fire- 
place was  swung  a  single  painting,  "  The  Rape  of 
the  Rhinegold,"  by  a  German  master.  The  grand 
piano  loaded  with  music  occupied  the  lower 
part  of  the  room  and  there  were  plenty  of  books 
in  the  cases.  Belle  reflected  that  Sig's  taste  was 
artistic  and  sighed  at  the  recollection  of  her  — 
of  their  —  big,  bare,  uncanny  house  on  the  hill. 
Selene  began : 

"  Belle,  dear,  I  'm  glad  to  see  you,  sorry  to  see 
you.  The  odious  newspapers  were  the  cause  of 
your  discovering  the  crime  —  don't  stop  me  — 
the  crime  of  that  wretch  downstairs  — "  Belle 
started.  "  I  sha'n't  mince  words  with  you. 
Sig  was  a  scamp,  a  gifted  rascal;  his  singing 
298 


SIEGFRIED'S   DEATH 

and  artistic  love-making  the  cause  of  many  a 
woman's  downfall." 

"Oh,  then  there  are  some  more?"  asked 
Belle,  in  a  most  interested  voice. 

"  Yes,  there  are  many  more ;  but  my  dear 
girl,  we  must  n't  become  morbid  and  discuss  the 
matter.  I  'm  afraid  what  we  are  doing  now  is 
in  rather  bad  taste,  but  I  'm  too  fond  of  you, 
too  fond  of  the  girl  I  went  to  school  with  to 
quarrel  because  a  bad  man  deceived  us.  I  've 
been  laying  down  the  law  to  Val,  Belle;  we 
must  not  be  present  at  the  funeral.  We  've  got 
to  bury  our  headstrong  husband  and  we  both 
can  see  the  last  of  him  from  the  closed  windows, 
but  neither  of  us  must  be  present.  Now,  don't 
shake  your  head !  In  this  matter  I  'm  deter- 
mined ;  besides  what  would  the  newspapers  say? 
One  miserable  sheet  actually  compared  us  to 
Briinnhilde  and  Gutrune  because  —  oh,  you 
know  why !  " 

"  When  Sig  left  the  opera-house,"  continued 
Belle,  in  a  calm  voice,"  he  always  took  a  special 
train  home  and  I  suppose  the  railroad  men  gave 
the  story  to  the  reporters." 

"  Not  always ;  excuse  me,  Belle,"  contradicted 
Selene,  in  her  coldest  manner ;  "  the  last  time 
Sig  sang  '  Gotterdammerung '  he  returned  here." 
Belle  stood  up  and  waved  her  teaspoon. 

"Now,  don't  be  ridiculous,  Selene;  this  was 
not  as  much  his  home  as  ours  in  the  mountains, 
and—" 

299 


MELOMANIACS 

"  There  is  no  necessity  of  becoming  excited, 
Belle ;  he  told  me  of  his  affair  with  you."  Se- 
lene's blue  eyes  were  opened  very  wide.  The 
other  woman  began  to  blaze. 

"Affair?  Why,  foolish  child,  I  am  his  first 
wife  — "  "  Common-law  wife,"  interjected  Selene. 
"  His  first,  his  legal  wife,  and  I  mean  to  test  it 
in  the  courts.  His  property  —  "  "  You  mean 
his  debts,  Belle,"  interrupted  Selene,  contemp- 
tuously. "  Sig  owes  even  for  his  Siegfried  hel- 
met. He  gambled  his  money  away.  He 
played  poker-dice  when  he  was  n't  singing 
Wagner,  and  flirted  when  he  wasn't  drunk." 

Belle  sat  down  and  laughed  again,  and  this 
time  Selene  joined  in. 

"  Tell  me,  dear,  how  and  when  he  persuaded 
you,"  inquired  Belle.  Selene  grew  snappish. 
"Oh,  you  read  the  papers.  We  were  married 
last  month  with  Val  as  witness ;  then  some  fool 
got  hold  of  the  story ;  it  was  printed.  Sig  came 
home  after  the  opera  and  told  me  that  he  was 
ruined  because  he  had  expected  a  fortune  from 
Mrs.  Madison  —  you  know  the  old  bleached 
blonde  who  sits  in  the  first  tier  box  at  the 
opera  —  and,  of  course,  I  smelt  another  affair. 
I  scolded  him  and  sent  for  Val.  Well,  Val  was 
a  perfect  fool  on  the  subject  of  Sig,  and  when 
he  heard  of  the  gambling  debts  he  said  a  lawyer 
might  straighten  the  affair  out.  That  night  Sig 
began  drinking  absinthe  and  brandy,  and  in  the 
morning  James,  the  butler,  found  him  dead. 
300 


SIEGFRIED'S  DEATH 

If  the  papers  had  n't  got  hold  of  your  story,  the 
thing  could  have  been  nicely  settled.  As  it  is 
we  are  simply  ridiculous,  and  the  worst  of  all  is 
that  the  management  and  the  stockholders  in- 
sist on  a  public  funeral  and  speeches ;  Sig  was 
such  a  favorite.  Think !  he  was  the  first  great 
American  Wagner  singer ;  and  so  here  are  we, 
a  pair  of  fools  in  love  with  the  same  man  "  — 
"  Excuse  me,  Selene,  I  never  loved  him.  He 
forced  me  to  marry  him."  "  And  my  own 
brother,  Belle,  with  his  nonsensical  Wagner 
worship,  drove  me  to  marry  a  man  I  had  only 
met  twice."  Selene  sighed. 

"  We  were  fools,"  they  said  in  chorus,  as  Val 
entered,  his  eyes  red  from  weeping.  "  You 
silly,  silly  boy,  Sig  never  cared  a  rap  for  any 
one  on  earth  but  himself.  Look  at  us  and  fol- 
low our  example  in  grieving,"  and  the  widows 
laughed  almost  hysterically.  .  .  . 


Ill 

As  early  as  seven  o'clock  there  was  a  small 
crowd  in  front  of  the  Marsoc  residence,  from 
which  was  to  be  buried  the  famous  tenor,  Sieg- 
fried Brazier.  His  death,  his  many  romances, 
his  marriages,  his  debts  and  his  stalwart  person- 
ality canalized  public  curiosity,  and  after  the 
doors  had  been  thrown  open  a  constantly  grow- 
ing stream  of  men,  women,  children,  and  again 
women,  women,  women,  flowed  into  the  house 
301 


MELOMANIACS 

through  the  hall,  into  the  big  reception-room, 
past  the  modest  coffin  with  its  twin  bouquets  of 
violets,  out  of  the  side  door  and  into  the  street 
again.  The  fact  that  at  midday  there  were  to 
be  imposing  public  obsequies,  did  not  check 
the  desire  of  the  morbid-minded  to  view  the 
corpse  in  a  more  intimate  fashion.  No  mem- 
bers of  the  family  were  downstairs ;  but  over 
the  broad  balustrade  hung  two  veiled  women, 
their  eyes  burning  with  curiosity.  As  the  tide 
of  humanity  swept  by  Belle  felt  her  arm 
pinched : 

"  There,  there !  the  old  woman  in  a  crape 
veil.  That 's  mother  Madison.  She  '11  have  to 
alter  her  will  now.  Perhaps  she 's  done  it 
already.  She  was  in  love  with  Sig.  Yes,  that 
old  thing."  Selene  gave  a  husky  titter.  "  And 
she 's  sneaking  in  to  see  the  poor  boy  and 
thinks  no  one  will  recognize  her.  I  'd  like  to 
call  out  her  name."  Belle  clapped  her  hand 
over  Selene's  mouth. 

"  Look,  now,"  said  the  latter,  releasing  her- 
self; "  look  at  those  chorus  girls.  What  cheek  ! 
All  with  violets,  because  it  was  his  favorite 
flower.  What  a  man ;  what  a  man ! "  .  .  . 

Belle's  companion  leaned  heavily  on  her,  and 
Val  came  up  and  persuaded  his  sister  to  go  to 
the  front  room.  His  eyes  were  hollow  and  his 
voice  broke  as  he  whispered  to  Belle  that  they 
might  be  seen.  Besides,  it  was  nearly  time  — 
he  went  downstairs.  .  .  . 
302 


SIEGFRIED'S   DEATH 

From  the  latticed  window  the  two  women 
watched.  First,  the  police  cleared  the  way; 
the  ragamuffins  were  driven  into  the  street. 
Then  the  fat  undertaker  appeared  with  Val 
and  stood  on  the  curb  as  the  coffin,  an  oak 
affair  with  silver  handles  and  plate,  was  carried 
to  the  hearse.  Val  and  the  undertaker  got  into 
a  solitary  carriage,  and  amidst  much  gabbling 
and  wondering  gossip  were  driven  off.  It  was 
a  plain,  very  plain,  funeral,  every  one  said,  and 
without  a  note  of  music.  As  the  crowd  dribbled 
away,  Selene  recognized  two  of  the  prima  don- 
nas and  the  first  contralto  of  the  opera,  and  she 
nudged  Belle  in  a  sardonic  manner. 

"  More  of  them,  Belle,  more  of  them.  We 
ought  to  feel  flattered,"  then  both  women  burst 
into  hysterical  sobbing  and  embraced  desper- 
ately. They  read  in  each  other's  eyes  a  mutual 
desire. 

"  Shall  we  risk  it?"  whispered  Belle.  Selene 
was  already  putting  on  her  heavy  mourning  veil 
Belle  at  once  began  to  dress,  and  James  wa& 
despatched  for  a  carriage.  The  street  was 
clear  when  the  widows  went  forth,  and  in  half 
an  hour  they  reached  the  opera-house.  Here 
they  were  delayed.  A  mounted  policeman 
tried  to  turn  their  hansom  away. 

Selene  beckoned  to  him  and  explained : 

"  I  am  Mrs.  Brazier,"  and  the  officer  bowed. 
They  were  driven  to  a  side  entrance,  and  the 
assistant-manager   took   the    pair   to    his    box. 
3°3 


MELOMANIACS 

There  they  sat  and  trembled  behind  their  long 
crape  veils.  .  .  . 

Some  one  on  the  stage  was  speaking  of  music, 
the  "  Heavenly  Maid,"  and  the  women  dissolved 
in  tears  at  the  glowing  eulogies  upon  their 
husband.  The  huge  auditorium  was  draped  en- 
tirely in  black.  In  it  was  thronged  a  sombre- 
coated  mass  of  men  and  the  women  known  in 
the  fashionable  and  artistic  world.  The  stage 
was  filled  with  musicians,  and  in  its  centre, 
banked  by  violets,  violets  only,  was  the  cata- 
falque. The  numerous  candles  and  flowers 
made  the  air  dull  and  perfumed ;  the  large 
chandeliers  burned  dimly,  and  when  the  Pil- 
grims' Chorus  began,  Belle  felt  that  she  was 
ready  to  swoon. 

The  stage-setting  was  the  last  scene  of 
"  Gotterdammerung ",  and  the  chorus  was  in 
costume.  A  celebrated  orator  had  finished ; 
the  chorus  welled  up  solemnly,  and  Selene  said 
again  and  again : 

"  Oh,  Sig !  Sig !  what  a  funeral,  what  a  funeral 
for  such  a  man !  "  "  It 's  just  the  kind  he  would 
have  liked,"  remonstrated  Belle,  in  a  barely 
audible  voice,  and  Selene  shivered.  When  the 
music  ceased  a  soprano  sang  the  Immolation 
music  and  there  was  weeping  heard  in  the  body 
of  the  house.  The  ushers  with  difficulty  kept 
the  aisles  clear,  and  the  lobbies  were  packed  with 
perspiring  persons.  Wherever  Selene  peeped 
she  saw  faces,  and  they  all  wore  an  expression 
304 


SIEGFRIED'S   DEATH 

of  grief.  Nearly  all  the  women  carried  handker- 
chiefs to  their  eyes,  and  many  of  the  men 
seemed  shamefaced  at  the  tears  they  could  not 
keep  back.  In  one  of  the  front  stalls  a  solitary 
figure  knelt,  face  buried  in  hands. 

"  There  's  Val,  Belle.  There,  near  the  stage, 
to  the  left.  I  do  believe  he  's  praying.  And 
for  what?  For  a  man  who  had  no  brains,  no 
heart;  a  reckless,  handsome  man,  who  was 
simply  a  voice,  a  sweet,  lying  voice." 

"  For  shame,  Selene,  for  shame !  He  was 
your  —  he  was  our  husband."  Belle's  lips 
were  white  and  trembling  as  she  murmured, 
"  May  God  rest  his  poor  soul.  He  was  a  sweet 
boy,  poor  Sig,  may  God  rest  his  soul.  Oh,  how 
I  wish  he  were  alive  !  "  Selene  looked  disdain- 
ful, and  her  eyes  grew  black. 

"  I  don't,"  she  said,  so  loudly  that  a  man  in 
the  next  box  leaned  over,  and  then  as  "  Sieg- 
fried's Trauermarsch "  sounded,  the  coffin  was 
carried  in  pompous  procession  from  the  building. 
There  was  a  brief  conflict  between  the  ushers 
and  a  lot  of  women  over  the  flowers  on  the 
stage,  and  every  one,  babbling  and  relieved, 
went  out  into  the  daylight.  .  .  .  The  widows 
waited  until  the  police  had  emptied  the  house, 
then  sent  for  their  carriage.  They  lunched  at 
home  and  later,  after  many  exchanges  of  affec- 
tion, Belle  drove  away  to  catch  the  evening 
train.  Selene  watched  her  from  the  window. 

"  I  do  believe  she  loved  him  after  all !  I  wish 
20  3°5 


MELOMANIACS 

she  'd  set  her  cap  now  for  Val.  Pooh !  what  a 
soft  fool  she  is.  Sig  was  my  legal  husband,  and 
I  alone  can  bear  his  name,  for  she  has  no  cer- 
tificate. What  an  interesting  name,  Mrs.  Sieg- 
fried Brazier,  widow  of  the  famous  Wagnerian 
tenor.  Is  that  you,  Val?  "  Val  came  in,  dusty 
and  exhausted. 

"Did  you  go  to  the  cemetery?"  "Yes." 
"  Was  any  one  there  ?  "  "  Only  one  old  woman." 
"  Mrs.  Madison !  "  cried  Selene,  in  rasping,  tri- 
umphant tones. 

"  No,"  wearily  answered  the  man,  lying.  .  .  . 


306 


INTERMEZZO 

IN  his  hand  Frank  Etharedge  held  a  cable- 
gram. The  emotion  of  the  moment  was  one  of 
triumph  mixed  with  curiosity;  his  sensitive  face 
a  keyboard  over  which  his  feelings  swept  the  oc- 
tave. He  was  alone  in  his  office,  and  from  the 
windows  on  the  top  floor  of  this  giant  building 
he  saw  the  harbor,  saw  the  river  maculated  with 
craft ;  saw  the  bay,  the  big  Statue  —  best  of  all 
saw  steamships.  This  caught  his  fancies  into 
one  chord  and  the  keynote  sounded :  Yes,  life 
was  a  good  thing  sometimes.  A  few  months 
more,  in  the  spring,  he  would  be  sailing  on  just 
such  an  iron  carrier  of  joy,  sailing  to  Paris,  to 
Edna.  He  looked  at  the  pink  message  again. 
It  announced  in  disconnected  words  that  Mrs. 
Etharedge  had  been  bidden  to  the  Paris  Grand 
Opera.  The  cable  was  ten  days  old,  and  on 
each  of  these  days  the  lawyer  had  gone  to  his 
private  consulting  room  immediately  after 
luncheon,  and,  facing  seaward,  read  the  precious 
revelation :  "  Engaged  by  Gailhard  for  Op6ra. 
Will  write.  Edna."  That  was  all  —  but  it  was 
the  top  of  the  hill  for  both  after  three  years  of 
separation  and  work.  He  was  not  an  expansive 
3°7 


MELOMANIACS 

man  and  said  little  to  his  associates  of  this  good 
fortune,  though  there  were  times  when  he  felt 
as  if  he  would  like  to  throw  open  the  windows 
and  shout  the  glorious  news  across  the  chimneys 
of  the  world. 

Etharedge  was  a  slim,  nervous  man  with  dark 
eyes  and  pointed  beard.  He  believed  in  his 
wife.  Europe,  artistic  Europe,  had  for  him  the 
fascination  which  sends  fanatics  across  hot  sands 
to  Mecca  shrines.  He  had  never  seen  Paris  but 
knew  its  people,  palaces,  galleries.  His  whole 
life  was  a  preparation  for  deliberate  assault  upon 
the  City  by  the  Seine.  He  spoke  American- 
French,  ate  at  French- American  table  d'h6tes, 
and  had  been  married  four  years  to  a  girl  of 
Gallic  descent  whose  singing  held  such  promise 
of  future  brilliancy  that  finally  their  household 
was  disrupted  by  music'  and  its  fluent  decep- 
tions. The  advice  of  friends,  the  unfortunate 
praise  of  a  few  professional  critics,  and  Edna 
Etharedge  accompanied  by  her  cousin,  a  widow, 
sailed  for  Paris.  Each  summer  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  join  her ;  once  the  death  of  his  mother 
had  stopped  him,  and  a  second  time  money 
matters  held  him  in  a  vise  of  steel,  but  the  third 
season  —  he  did  not  care  to  dwell  upon  that 
last  summer :  his  conscience  was  ill  at  ease. 
And  Edna  worked  like  the  galley  slave  into 
which  operatic  routine  transforms  the  most 
buoyant  spirit.  For  the  first  two  years  her 
letters  were  as  regular  as  the  mail  service  — 
308 


INTERMEZZO 

and  hopeful.  She  was  getting  on  famously. 
Her  cousin  corroborated  the  accounts  of  plain 
living  and  high  singing.  There  were  no  vaca- 
tions in  the  simple  pension  on  the  Boulevard  de 
Clichy.  She  had  the  best  master  in  Paris,  the 
best  r6p£titeur ;  and  the  instructor  who  came  to 
coach  her  in  stage  business  declared  that  mad- 
ame  held  the  future  in  the  hollow  of  her  pretty 
palm.  But  the  third  year  letters  began  to  miss. 
Edna  wrote  irregularly  in  pessimistic  phrases. 
Art  was  so  long  and  life  so  gray  that  she  felt, 
thus  she  assured  her  husband,  as  if  she  must 
give  up  everything  and  return  to  him.  Did  he 
miss  her?  Why  was  he  cool — above  all,  pa- 
tient? Didn't  he  long  for  wings  to  fly  across 
the  Atlantic?  Then  a  silence  of  three  weeks. 
Etharedge  grew  frantic.  He  neglected  business, 
spent  much  money  in  telegraph  tolls,  and  was 
at  last  relieved  by  a  letter  from  Emmeline  re- 
lating Edna's  severe  illness,  her  close  sailing  to 
the  perilous  gate,  and  her  slow  recovery.  He 
was  told  not  to  come  over  as  they  were  on  the 
point  of  starting  for  Switzerland  where  the  in- 
valid had  been  ordered.  Frank  felt  happy  for 
the  first  time  since  his  wife  had  gone  away. 
After  that,  letters  began  again  —  old  currents 
ran  smooth  and  the  climax  came  with  the  won- 
derful news. 

He  would  go  to  Paris  —  go  in  a  few  months, 
go  without  writing.  •  Then,  gaining  the  beauti- 
ful city,  he  would  read  the  announcements  of 
309 


MELOMANIACS 

Edna's  singing.  With  what  selfish,  subtle  joy 
would  he  buy  a  box  and  listen  to  the  voice  of 
his  beautiful  wife,  watch  the  lithe  figure,  hear 
the  applause  after  her  aria !  He  had  sworn 
this  was  to  reward  his  long  months  of  loneliness, 
of  syncopated  hopes,  of  tiresome  labor;  his 
profession  had  become  unleavened  drudgery. 
Perhaps  Edna  would  make  him  her  business 
man,  her  constant  companion.  Ah !  what  en- 
chantment to  stand  in  the  coulisses  and  hold  her 
wraps  while  she  floated  near  the  footlights  on 
the  pinions  of  song.  He  would  give  up  his  dis- 
tasteful practice  and  devote  the  remainder  of 
his  life  to  the  service  of  a  great  artist,  hear  all 
the  music  he  longed  for,  see  the  Paris  of  his 
dreams. 

The  door  opened.  Plunged  in  reverie  he  felt 
that  this  was  but  an  extension  of  his  vision. 
"  Edna ! "  he  cried  and  flung  wide  his  arms. 
"  Frank,  you  dear  old  boy,  how  thin  you  've 
grown!  Heavens!  You're  not  sick?  Wait, 
wait  until  I  raise  the  window."  She  pushed  up 
the  sash  noisily  and  Frank  felt  the  brisk  air  on 
his  temples.  He  smiled  though  his  heart  nipped 
sadly.  It  was  Edna,  Edna  his  wife  in  the  flesh ; 
and  the  excitement  of  holding  her  in  his  willing 
arms  drove  from  his  brain  the  vapors  of  idle 
hope.  She  was  looking  down  at  him  a  strong, 
handsome  girl  with  eyes  too  bright  and  hair  too 
golden.  "  Edna,"  he  cried,  "  your  hair,  what 
have  you  done  to  your  lovely  black  hair?" 
310 


INTERMEZZO 

"  There  's  a  salute  from  a  loving  husband.  No 
surprise,  though  I  Ve  dropped  from  the  clouds. 
But  my  hair  is  quizzed.  Now,  what  do  you 
mean,  Frank  Etharedge?  "  Both  were  agitated, 
both  endeavored  to  dissemble.  Then  his  eyes 
fell  on  the  cablegram.  He  started. 

"  In  the  name  of  God,  Edna,  is  anything  the 
matter?  This  cable!  Why  are  you  here? 
Are  you  in  trouble?  "  The  dark  shadows  under 
her  eyes  lightened  at  the  commonplace  ques- 
tions. She  had  time  to  tune  her  whirring 
thoughts. 

"  Frank,  don't  ask  too  much  at  once.  I  'm 
here  because  I  am.  We  have  just  landed.  I 
left  Emmeline  on  the  pier  with  the  custom 
officers  and  came  to  you  immediately.  Say 
you  're  glad  to  see  me  —  my  old  Frank !  " 

"  But,  but  —  "  he  stammered. 

"  Yes,  I  know  what  you  are  thinking.  I  was 
engaged  for  the  Paris  Opera  —  "  "Was?"  he 
blankly  ejaculated  —  "  and  I  could  n't  stand  it. 
Locateli  — "  "Who?"  "  Locateli.  You  re- 
member him,  Frank,  my  old  teacher?  He  got 
me  into  the  Opera  and  he  got  me  out  of  it." 
"  Do  you  mean  that  low-lived  scamp  who  gave 
you  lessons  here,  the  man  I  kicked  out  of 
doors?"  She  flushed.  Etharedge  stared  at 
her.  He  was  near  despair.  His  dream  of  an 
artistic  life  on  the  Continent  was  as  a  bubble  burst 
in  the  midday  sunlight.  He  loved  his  wife,  but 
the  shock  of  her  unheralded  arrival,  the  hasty 
311 


MELOMANIACS 

ill-news,  proved  too  much  for  this  patient  man's 
nerves.  So  he  transposed  his  wrath  to  Lo- 
cateli. 

"  Well,  I  'm  damned  !  "  he  blurted,  kicking 
aside  the  chair  and  walking  the  floor  like  a 
caged  cat.  "And  to  think  that  scoundrel  of 
an  Italian  — "  "Frenchman,  Frank,"  she  in- 
terposed—  "  that  foreigner,  who  ought  to  have 
been  shot  for  insulting  you,  that  Locateli,  fol- 
lowed you  to  Paris  and  mixed  up  in  your  af- 
fairs !  And  you  say  he  had  you  pushed  out  of 
the  Opera?  The  intriguing  villain!  How  did 
you  come  to  see  him?  " 

"  He  gave  me  lessons  in  Paris."  "  Located 
gave  you  —  Lord  !  "  The  man  was  speechless. 
He  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead  several  times, 
and  then  gazed  at  his  wife's  hair.  She  fell  to 
sobbing.  "  Frank,"  she  wailed,  "  Frank  !  I  've 
come  back  to  you  because  I  could  n't  stand  it 
any  longer —  it  was  killing  me.  Can't  you  see 
it?  Can't  you  believe  me?  No  woman,  no 
American  girl  can  go  through  that  life  and  come 
out  of  it  —  happy.  It  made  me  sick,  Frank,  but 
I  did  not  like  to  tell  you.  And  now,  after  I  Ve 
thrown  up  a  career  simply  because  I  can't  be 
your  wife  and  a  great  artist  at  the  same  time, 
your  suspicions  are  driving  me  mad."  Her 
tone  was  poignant.  He  looked  out  on  the  har- 
bor as  another  steamer  passed  the  Statue  bound 
for  Europe. 

"  Ask  Emmeline ! "  She,  too,  followed  the 
312 


INTERMEZZO 

vessel  with  hopeless  expression  and  clasped  his 
shoulder.  "  Oh  !  Sweetheart,  are  n't  you  glad  to 
have  me  back  again  ?  It 's  Edna,  your  wife  !  I  Ve 
been  through  lots  for  the  sake  of  music.  Now  I 
want  my  husband  —  I  'm  not  happy  away  from 
him."  He  suddenly  embraced  her.  Forgotten 
the  disappointment,  forgotten  the  fast  vanishing 
hope  of  a  luxurious  life,  of  seeing  his  dream  — 
Paris ;  forgotten  all  in  the  fierce  joy  of  having 
Edna  with  him  forever.  Again  he  experienced 
a  thrill  that  must  be  happiness :  as  if  his  being 
were  dissolving  into  a  magnetic  slumber.  He 
searched  her  eyes.  She  bore  it  without 
blenching. 

"  Are  you  my  same  little  Edna?  "  "Oh,  my 
husband !  "  There  was  a  knock  at  the  door ; 
an  office  boy  entered  and  gave  Etharedge  a  let- 
ter which  bore  a  foreign  stamp.  She  put  out  her 
hand  greedily.  "  It  will  keep  until  after  din- 
ner, Edna.  We  '11  go  to  some  cafe",  drink  a  bot- 
tle of  champagne  and  celebrate.  You  must  tell 
me  your  story  —  perhaps  we  may  be  able  to  go 
to  Paris,  after  all."  "  To  Paris  !  "  Edna  shivered 
and  importuned  for  the  letter  until  he  showed 
it.  "  Why,  it 's  mine  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  It 's 
the  letter  I  wrote  you  before  we  sailed."  "  You 
said  nothing  about  it  when  you  came  in?"  He 
put  it  in  his  pocket  and  looked  for  his  hat.  She 
was  the  color  of  clay.  "  It  is  my  letter.  Let 
me  have  it,"  she  begged.  "  Why,  dear,  what 's 
the  matter?  I'll  give  it  to  you  after  I  have 


MELOMANIACS 

read  it.  Why  this  excitement?  Besides,  the  ad- 
dress is  not  in  your  handwriting."  He  trembled. 
"  Emmeline  wrote  it  for  me ;  I  was  too  busy 
—  or  sick  —  or  —  '  "  Hang  the  letter,  my  dear 
girl.  I  hear  the  elevator.  Let 's  run  and  catch 
it.  This  is  the  happiest  hour  of  my  life.  An 
'  intermezzo'  you  musicians  call  it,  don't  you?  " 
"  Yes,"  she  desperately  whispered  following  him 
into  the  hall,  "  an  intermezzo  of  happiness  — 
for  you  !  " 

Suddenly  with  a  grin  the  man  turned  and 
handed  her  the  letter :  "  Here  !  I  'd  better  not 
juggle  with  the  future.  You  can  tell  me  all 
about  it  —  tomorrow." 

And  now  for  the  first  time  Edna  hated  him. 


A   SPINNER   OF   SILENCE 


She  was  only  a  woman  famish'd  for  loving. 

Mad  with  devotion  and  such  slight  things. 
And  he  was  a  very  great  musician 

And  used  to  finger  his  fiddle  strings. 

Her  heart's  sweet  gamut  is  cracking  and  breaking 
For  a  look,  for  a  touch  —  for  such  slight  things 

But  he  's  such  a  very  great  musician 
Grimacing  and  fing'ring  his  fiddle  strings. 

—  TH£OPHILE  MARZIALS. 


IN  his  study  Belus  sat  before  a  piano,  his 
slender  troubled  fingers  seeking  to  follow  the 
quick  drift  of  his  mind.  He  played  Liszt's 
"  Waldesrauschen,"  but  murmured,  "  She  is 
the  first  to  doubt  me."  He  laughed,  and  shifted 
by  an  almost  unconscious  cut  to  the  F  minor 
Nocturne  of  Chopin.  With  the  upward  curve 
of  his  thoughts  the  music  grew  more  joyous ; 
then  came  bits  of  a  Schubert  impromptu,  boil- 
ing scales  and  flashes  of  clear  sky.  The  window 
he  faced  looked  out  upon  the  park.  Beyond 
the  copper  gleam  from  the  great,  erect  syna- 
gogue was  the  placid  toy  lake  with  its  rim  of 
moving  children ;  the  trees  swept  smoothly  in  a 
huge  semi-circle,  and  at  their  verge  was  the 


MELOMANIACS 

driveway.  The  glow  of  the  afternoon,  the 
purity  of  the  air,  and  the  glancing  metal  on 
the  rolling  carriages  made  a  gay  picture  for 
the  artist.  But  he  was  not  long  at  ease,  though 
his  eyes  rested  gratefully  upon  the  green  foliage. 
The  interrogative  note  in  the  music  betrayed 
inquietude,  even  mental  turbulence. 

A  certain  firmness  of  features,  long,  narrow 
eyes  set  under  a  square  forehead,  heavily  ac- 
cented cheek-bones,  almost  Calmuck  in  width, 
a  straight  feminine  nose,  beckoning  black  hair 

—  these,  and  a  distinction  of  bearing  made  Belus 
the  eighth  wonder  of  his  day.    That  is  what  the 
hypnotized  ones  averred.     Master  of  a  complex 
art,  his  nature  complex,  the  synthesis  was  irre- 
sistible.    His  expression   was  complicated ;  he 
had   not  a    frank  gaze,    nor  did    he    meet   his 
friends    without    a    nameless    reticence.     This 
veiled  manner  made  him  difficult  to  decipher. 
Upon  the  stage  Belus  was  like  a  desert  cat,  a 
gliding  movement  almost  incorporeal,  a  glance 
of    feline    intensity,    and    then  —  the    puissant 
attack  upon  the  keyboard.    As  in  sullen  dreams 
one  struggles  to  throw  off  the  spell  of  hypnotic 
suggestion,  so   there   were    many   who    mutely 
fought  his  power,    questioning  with    rebellious 
soul  his  right  to  conquer.     But  conquer  he  did 

—  so  all  the  conservatory  pupils  said.    A  steady 
stream  of  victorious  tone  came  from  under  his 
supple  fingers,    and  his  instrument  of  shallow 
thunders    and    tinkling    wires   sang   as   if   an 


A   SPINNER   OF   SILENCE 

archangel  had  smote  it,  celestially  sang.  Belus 
was  the  Raphael  of  the  piano,  and  master  of  the 
emotional  world.  His  planetary  music  gathered 
about  him  women,  the  ailing,  the  sorrowful,  the 
mad,  and  there  were  days  when  these  Maenads 
could  have  slain  him  in  their  excess  of  nervous 
fury,  as  was  slain  Bacchus  of  old.  Thus  wrote 
some  enthusiastic  critics  of  the  impressionist 
school. 

Zora  came  in.  She  was  brune  and  broad, 
her  eyes  of  changeful  color,  and  her  temper 
wifely.  Belus  flashed  his  fingers  in  the  air,  and 
she  bowed  her  head.  His  own  language  was 
Hungarian,  that  tongue  of  tender  and  royal 
assonances,  but  Zora  had  never  heard  it.  She 
was  quite  deaf;  and  so,  barred  from  the  splen- 
dors of  this  magician's  inner  court,  she  ever 
watched  his  face  with  a  curiosity  that  honey- 
combed her  very  life. 

The  man's  love  of  paradox  had  piqued  him 
to  select  this  deaf  woman ;  he  confessed  to  his 
intimate  friends  that  the  ideal  companion  for  a 
musician  was  one  who  could  never  hear  him 
practise  his  piano.  She  rapidly  made  a  request 
in  her  little  voice,  the  faded  voice  of  the  deaf: 
"  Can't  I  go  to  the  concert  with  you?  Oh,  do 
not  put  me  off.  I  am  crazy  to  see  you  play,  to 
see  the  public."  He  drew  back  at  once.  "  If 
you  go  you  will  make  me  nervous  —  and  the 
recital  is  sold  out,"  he  signalled.  She  regarded 
him  steadily.  "  Your  art  usually  ends  in  the 


MELOMANIACS 

box-office."  They  drank  their  coffee  sadly. 
Leaving  her  with  a  pad  upon  which  he  had 
scribbled  "Patience,  Fatima,  wife  of  Blue- 
beard !  "  Belus  went  to  his  concert,  she  to  her 
hushed  dreams.  .  .  . 


II 

Zora  drowsed  on  the  balcony.  The  park 
was  a  great,  shapeless,  soft  flowing  river  of  trees 
over  which  the  tall  stars  hung,  while  the  creep- 
ing plumes  of  rhythmic  steam,  and  the  earthly 
echoes  of  light  from  the  flat-faced  hotels  on  the 
west  side  set  her  wondering  if  any  one  really 
stayed  at  home  when  Belus  played  Chopin.  No 
one  but  herself,  she  bitterly  thought.  Her 
mood  turned  jealous.  His  magnetism,  her 
husband's  magnetism,  that  vast  reservoir  upon 
which  floated  the  souls  of  many,  like  tiny  lamps 
set  adrift  upon  the  bosom  of  the  Ganges  by 
pious  Mahommedan  widows,  must  it  ever  be 
free  to  all  but  herself?  Must  she,  who  wor- 
shipped at  his  secret  shrine,  share  her  adoration, 
her  idol,  with  the  first  sentimental  school  girl? 
It  was  revolting.  She  would  bear  with  it  no 
longer.  The  ride  through  the  park  cooled  her 
blood  and  eased  her  headache.  Just  to  be 
nearer  to  him;  that  might  set  her  throbbing 
nerves  at  rest.  As  if  she  had  been  cut  off  from 
the  big  central  current  of  life,  so  this  woman 
suffered  during  the  absence  of  her  husband.  In 


A   SPINNER   OF   SILENCE 

trance-like  condition  she  stepped  out  of  the 
carriage,  and  slowly  walked  down  Seventh 
avenue.  When  Fifty-sixth  Street  was  reached, 
she  turned  eastward  and  went  up  the  few  steps 
that  led  into  the  artists'  room. 

A  man  half  staggered  by  her  at  the  dimly 
lighted  door,  but  steadied  himself  when  he 
saw  her. 

"  I  am  Madame  Belus,"  she  said  in  her  pretty 
English  streaked  with  soft  Magyar  cadences. 
He  stared  at  her,  and  she  thought  him  crazy. 
"  All  right,  ma'am,"  he  said  after  a  pause.  His 
speech  was  thick,  yet  he  was  not  drunk ;  it  was 
more  the  behavior  of  a  drug  eater. 

"  Don't  go  back  there,  lady !  "  he  begged, 
"  don't  go  back  to  the  professor.  He  is  doing 
wonderful  things  with  the  piano,  but  somehow 
I  could  n't  stand  it,  it  made  me  dizzy.  I  had 
no  business  there  anyhow.  .  .  .  You  know  his 
orders.  Every  door  locked  in  the  building 
when  he  plays.  If  the  public  knew  it,  what  a 
row ! "  The  man  gasped  in  the  spring  air. 
Zora  was  terrified.  What  secret  was  being 
withheld  from  her?  Who  could  be  with  him? 
Perhaps  he  was  deceiving  her,  Belus,  her 
husband !  She  tried  to  pass  the  man,  who 
stared  at  her  vacantly. 

"  Don't  go  in,   ma'am,   don't  go    in.     Every 

door  is  locked,  all  except  the  two  little  doors 

looking  out  on  the  stage.     My  God,  don't  go 

there !     I    saw   a    mango    tree  —  I    know   the 

3*9 


MELOMANIACS 

mango,  for  I  Ve  been  in  India  —  I  saw  the  tree 
bloom  out  over  the  keys,  and  its  fruit  fell  on  the 
stage.  I  saw  it.  And  I  swear  to  the  ladder, 
the  rope  ladder,  which  he  threw  up  with  his 
left  hand  while  he  kept  on  playing  with  the 
other.  If  you  had  only  seen  what  came  tum- 
bling down  that  rope  as  he  played  the  cradle- 
song!  Baby  faces,  withered  faces,  girls  and 
mothers,  the  sweetest  and  the  most  fearful  you 
ever  saw.  They  all  came  rolling  down  and  the 
people  in  front  sat  still,  the  old  ones  crying 
softly.  And  there  were  wings  and  devilish 
things.  I  could  n't  stand  the  air,  it  was  alive ; 
and  your  man's  face,  white  and  drawn,  with  the 
eyes  all  gone  like  those  jugglers  I  knew  when  I 
was  a  boy  in  India  —  out  there  in  India." 

She  trembled  like  the  strings  of  a  violin. 
Then  after  a  sharp  struggle  with  her  beating 
heart,  and  bravely  pushing  the  man  aside,  she 
went  on  rapid  feet  up  the  circular  stairway,  her 
head  buzzing  with  the  clamor  of  her  nerves. 
India !  Belus  had  once  confessed  that  his  youth 
had  been  spent  in  Eastern  lands.  What  did  it 
mean?  As  she  mounted  to  the  little  doors  she 
listened  in  vain  for  the  sound  of  music.  She 
heard  nothing,  not  even  the  occasional  singing 
of  the  electric  lights.  Not  a  break  in  the  air 
told  her  of  the  vast  assembly  on  the  other  side 
of  the  wall.  Belus,  where  was  he  ?  Possibly  in 
his  room  above.  But  why  had  she  met  none  of 
the  usual  officials  ?  What  devilry  was  loosed  in 
320 


A  SPINNER   OF   SILENCE 

the  large  spaces  of  this  hall?  Again  her  heart 
roared  threateningly  and  she  was  forced  to  sit 
on  a  chair  to  catch  her  breath.  A  humming 
like  the  wind  plucking  at  the  wires  of  a  thou- 
sand vEolian  harps  set  her  soul  shivering  in  fresh 
dismay.  The  two  little  arched  doors  were  in 
front  of  her,  but  they  seemed  leagues  away. 
To  go  to  one  and  boldly  open  it  she  must;  yet 
her  tissues  were  dissolving,  her  eyes  dim.  That 
door !  —  if  she  could  see  him,  see  Belus,  then 
all  would  be  well.  Across  the  stair  she  wavered, 
a  wraith  blown  across  the  gulf  of  time.  She 
grasped  at  the  cold  knob  of  the  door —  gripped 
but  could  not  turn  it,  for  it  was  locked.  Zora 
fell  to  her  knees,  her  heart  weeping  like  the 
eyes  of  sorrow.  Oh !  for  one  firm,  clangorous 
chord  struck  by  Belus  ;  it  would  be  as  wine  to 
the  wounded.  Zora  crawled  to  the  other  door, 
perhaps  —  !  It  was  not  locked,  and  slowly  she 
opened  it  and  peered  out  upon  the  stage,  the 
auditorium. 

The  humming  of  the  harps  ceased  and  the 
chaplet  of  iron  that  bound  her  brow  relaxed. 
The  house  was  full  of  faces,  pink  human  faces, 
the  faces  of  women,  and  as  these  faces  rose  tier 
after  tier,  terrifying  terraces  of  heads,  Zora 
recalled  the  first  council  of  the  Angel  of  Light ; 
Lucifer's  council  sung  of  by  Milton  and  mezzo- 
tinted by  John  Martin.  The  faces  were  drained 
of  expression,  but  in  the  rows  near  by  she  saw 
staring  eyes.  Belus  —  what  was  he  doing? 
21  321 


MELOMANIACS 

He  sat  at  the  piano  and  over  its  keyboard 
his  long,  ghost-like  fingers  moved  with  febrile 
velocity.  But  no  music  reached  her  ears.  In- 
stead she  saw  suspended  above  him  the  soul  of 
Belus.  It  was  like  a  coat  of  many  colors.  It 
glistened  with  the  subtle  hues  of  a  flying  fish ; 
and  it  swam  in  the  air  with  passionate  flashes  of 
fire.  This  soul  that  wriggled  and  leapt,  this 
burning  coal  that  blistered  the  hearts  of  his 
audience,  was  it  truly  the  soul  of  her  husband? 
As  the  multitude  rose  in  cadenced  waves  of 
emotion,  the  soul  seemed  to  shrink,  to  become 
more  remote.  Then  leaf  by  leaf  it  dropped  its 
petals  until  only  an  incandescent  core  was  left. 
And  this,  too,  paled  and  died  into  numb  nothing- 
ness. Where  was  the  soul  of  Belus  ?  What  was 
the  soul  of  Belus  ?  A  bit  of  carbon  lighted  by 
the  world's  applause?  A  trick-nest  of  boxes 
each  smaller  than  the  other,  with  black  emp- 
tiness at  the  end?  A  musical  mirage  of  the 
world  ? 

Belus  was  bowing.  Then  she  saw  the  faces 
ravished  with  delight,  the  swaying  of  crazy 
people.  They  had  heard  —  but  she  alone  knew 
the  secret.  .  .  . 

Ill 

Belus  shook  Zora's  shoulders  when  he  re- 
turned from  the  concert.  •"  Why,  your  hair  is 
wet ;  you  must  have  been  asleep  on  the  balcony 
in  the  rain,"  he  irritably  fingered  in  the  deaf 

322 


A   SPINNER   OF   SILENCE 

code.  Still  possessed  by  the  melodious  terror  of 
her  dream,  the  rare  audible  dream  of  one  born 
to  silence,  she  arose  from  her  chair  and  waved 
him  a  gentle  good-night.  He  stared  moodily 
after  her  and  rang  for  the  servant.  .  .  . 

The  hearts  of  some  women  are  as  a  vast 
cathedral.  Its  gorgeous  high  altars,  its  sound- 
ing gloom,  its  lofty  arches  are  there ;  and  per- 
haps a  tiny  taper  burns  before  an  obscure 
votive  shrine.  Many  pass  through  life  with 
this  taper  unlighted,  despite  the  pomps  and 
pleasures  of  the  conjugal  comedy.  But  others 
carry  in  the  little  chapel  of  their  hearts  a  soli- 
tary glimmering  lamp  of  love  which  only  flames 
out  with  death.  Zora  knows  this  glimmering 
light  is  not  love,  but  renunciation.  Is  not  she 
the  wife  of  a  great  artist  ? 


323 


THE 
DISENCHANTED    SYMPHONY 

The  Earth  hath  bubbles  — 

—  MACBETH. 

POBLOFF  began  to  whistle  the  second  theme  of 
his  symphony.  He  was  a  short,  round-bellied 
man  with  a  high  head  upon  which  stood  quill-like 
hair ;  when  he  smiled,  his  little  lunar  eyes  closed 
completely,  and  his  vast  mouth  opened  —  a 
trap  filled  with  white  blocks  of  polished  bone ; 
when  he  laughed,  it  sounded  like  a  snorting 
tuba.  .  .  .  Nature  had  hesitated  whether  to  en- 
dow him  with  the  profile  of  Punch  or  Napoleon. 
He  was  dark,  not  in  the  least  dangerous,  and  a 
native  of  Russia,  though  long  a  resident  of  Balak. 
Pobloff's  wife  dusted  the  music  on  the  top  of 
his  old  piano.  "  In  God's  name,  Luga,  let  my 
manuscript  in  peace,"  he  adjured  her.  She 
snapped  at  him,  but  he  continued  whistling. 
"More  original  music?"  She  was  ironically 
inquisitive  as  she  danced  about  the  white  por- 
celain stove,  tumbled  over  scores  that  littered 
the  apartment  as  grass  grown  wild  in  a  deserted 
alley ;  pushed  violin  cases  that  rattled ;  upset  an 
empty  bird-cage  and  finally  threw  wide  back  the 
metal-slatted  shutters,  admitting  an  inundation  of 
324 


THE   DISENCHANTED   SYMPHONY 

sunshine.  ...  It  was  early  May,  but  in  Balak, 
with  its  southeastern  Europe  climate,  the  weather 
was  warm  as  a  July  day  in  Paris.  "  Hurrah  !  " 
Pobloff  suddenly  bellowed,  "  I  have  it,  I  have  it !  " 
Luga  glanced  at  him  sourly.  "  I  suppose  you  '11 
set  the  world  on  fire  this  time  for  sure,  my  man ; 
and  then  little  Richard  Strauss  will  be  asking  for 
advice !  What  are  you  going  to  call  the  new 
symphonic  poem,  Pobloff  ?  Oh,  name  it  after 
me  !  "  She  shrieked  down  the  passage  way  at 
a  slouching  maid,  and  ran  out,  leaving  Pobloff 
jolly  and  unruffled. 

"  Ouf !  "  he  ejaculated,  as  her  sarcasm  finally 
penetrated  his  consciousness,  "  I  '11  call  it  '  The 
Fourth  Dimension  '  —  that 's  what  I  will.  Luga  ! 
Where  's  that  idle  cat?  Luga,  some  tea,  tea,  I  'm 
thirsty."  And  he  again  whistled  the  second  theme 
of  his  new  symphony. 


Pobloff  loved  mathematics  more  than  music  — 
and  he  adored  music.  He  was  fond  of  compar- 
ing the  two,  and  often  quoted  Leibnitz  :  "  Music 
is  an  occult  exercise  of  the  mind  unconsciously 
performing  arithmetical  calculations."  For  him, 
so  he  assured  his  friends,  music  was  a  species  of 
sensual  mathematics.  Before  he  left  St.  Peters- 
burg to  settle  in  Balak  as  its  Kapellmeister  he 
had  studied  at  the  University  under  the  famous 
Lobatchewsky,  and  absorbed  from  him  not  a  few 
325 


MELOMANIACS 

of  the  radical  theories  containing  the  problem- 
atic fourth  dimension.  He  read  with  avid  inter- 
est of  J.  K.  F.  Zollner's  experiments  which  drove 
that  unfortunate  Leipzig  physicist  into  incurable 
melancholia.  Ah,  what  madmen  these  !  Per- 
petual motion,  squaring  the  circle,  the  fourth 
spatial  dimension  —  all  new  variants  of  the  old 
alchemical  mystery,  the  vain  pursuit  of  the  phi- 
losophers' stone,  the  transmutation  of  the  baser 
metals,  the  cabalistic  Abracadabra,  the  quest  of 
the  absolute  !  Yet  sincere  and  certainly  quite  sane 
men  of  scientific  training  had  considered  seri- 
ously this  mathematic  hypothesis.  Cayley,  Pob- 
loff  had  read,  and  Abbot's  "  Flatland  "  ;  while  the 
ingenious  speculations  of  W.  K.  Clifford  and  the 
American,  Simon  Newcomb,  fascinated  him  im- 
measurably. He  cared  little  —  being  idealist  and 
musician  —  for  the  grosser  demonstrations  of  hy- 
per-normal phenomena,  though  for  a  time  he  had 
wavered  before  the  mysterious  cross-roads  of 
demoniac  possession,  subliminal  divinations,  and 
the  strange  rappings  that  emanate  from  souls 
smothered  in  hypnotic  slumber.  The  testimony 
of  such  a  man  as  Professor  Crookes  who  had  wit- 
nessed feats  of  human  levitation  greatly  stirred 
him ;  but  in  the  end  he  drifted  back  to  his  early 
passions  —  music  and  mathematics. 

Zollner  had  proved  to  his  own  satisfaction  the 

existence  of  a  fourth  dimension,  when  he  turned 

an   India-rubber  ball  inside  out  without  tearing 

it;   but  Pobloff,  a  man  of  tone,  was  more  ab- 

326 


THE   DISENCHANTED   SYMPHONY 

sorbed  in  the  demonstration  that  Time  could 
be  shown  in  two  dimensions.  He  often  quoted 
Hugh  Craig,  who  compared  Time  to  a  river 
always  flowing,  yet  a  permanent  river:  If  one 
emerged  from  this  stream  at  a  certain  moment 
and  entered  it  an  hour  later,  would  it  not  sig- 
nify that  Time  had  two  dimensions?  And  music 
—  where  did  music  stand  in  the  eternal  scheme 
of  things?  Was  not  harmony  with  its  vertical 
structure  and  melody's  horizontal  flow,  proof 
that  music  itself  was  but  another  dimension  in 
Time?  In  the  vast  and  complicated  scores 
of  Richard  Strauss,  the  listener  has  set  in  mo- 
tion two  orders  of  auditions :  he  hears  the  music 
both  horizontally  and  vertically.  This  combina- 
tion of  the  upright  and  the  transverse  amused 
Pobloff  immensely.  He  declared,  with  his  in- 
scrutable giggle,  that  all  other  arts  were  childish 
in  their  demands  upon  the  intellect  when  com- 
pared to  music.  "  You  can  see  pictures,  poems, 
sculpture,  and  architecture  —  but  music  you  must 
hear,  see,  feel,  smell,  taste,  to  apprehend  it  right- 
fully :  and  all  at  the  same  time  !  "  Pobloff  shook 
his  heavy  head  and  tried  to  look  solemn. 
"  Think  of  it !  With  every  sense  and  several 
more  besides,  going  in  different  directions,  bril- 
liantly sputtering  like  wet  fireworks,  roaring  like 
mighty  cataracts !  Ah,  it  was  a  noble,  crazy 
art,  and  the  only  art,  except  poetry,  that  moved. 
All  the  rest  are  beautiful  gestures  arrested.  .  .  . 
Pobloff  ate  five  meals  a  day,  and  sometimes 
327 


MELOMANIACS 

expanding  his  chest  to  its  utmost  and  extending 
his  arms  to  the  zenith,  yawned  prodigiously. 
Born  a  true  pessimist,  he  often  was  bored  to  the 
extreme  by  existence.  In  addition  to  the  fort- 
nightly symphony  concerts  and  their  necessary 
rehearsals,  he  did  nothing  but  compose  and 
dream  of  new  spaces  to  conquer.  He  was  a 
Czar  over  his  orchestra,  and  though  a  fat,  good- 
humored  man,  had  a  singularly  nasty  temper. 

Convinced  that  in  music  lay  the  solution  of 
this  particular  mathematical  problem,  he  had  been 
working  for  over  a  year  on  a  symphonic  poem 
which  he  jocularly  christened  "  The  Abysm." 
Untouched  by  his  wife's  daily  tauntings  —  she 
was  an  excellent  musician  and  harpist  in  his 
band  —  he  could  not  help  admitting  to  his  inte- 
rior self,  that  she  was  right  in  her  aspersions  on 
his  originality:  Richard  Strauss  had  shown  him 
the  way.  Pobloff  decided  to  leave  map  and  com- 
pass behind,  and  march  out  with  his  music  into 
some  new  country  or  other  —  he  did  not  much 
care  where.  Could  but  the  fourth  dimension  be 
traced  to  tone,  to  his  tones,  then  would  his  name 
resound  throughout  the  ages ;  for  what  was  the 
feat  of  Columbus  compared  with  this  exploration 
of  a  vaster  spiritual  America !  Pobloff  trembled. 
He  was  so  transported  by  the  idea,  that  his  capa- 
cious frame  and  large  head  became  enveloped 
in  a  sort  of  magnetic  halo.  He  diffused  enthu- 
siasm as  a  swan  sheds  water ;  and  his  men  did 
not  grumble  at  the  numerous  extra  rehearsals, 
328 


THE   DISENCHANTED   SYMPHONY 

for  they  realized  that  their  chief  might  make  an 
important  discovery. 

The  composer  was  a  stern  believer  in  absolute 
music.  For  him  the  charms  of  scenery,  lights, 
odor,  costume,  singers,  and  the  subtle  voice  of 
the  prompter  seemed  factitious,  mere  excres- 
cences on  the  fair  surface  of  art.  But  he  was  a 
born  colorist,  and  sought  to  arouse  the  imagina- 
tion by  stupendous  orchestral  effects,  frescoes 
of  tone  wherein  might  be  discerned  terrifying 
perspectives,  sinister  avenues  of  drooping  trees 
melting  into  iron  dusks.  If  Pobloff  was  a  mathe- 
matician, he  was  also  a  painter-poet.  He  did  not 
creditthe  theory  of  the  alienists,  that  the  confusion 
of  tone  and  color  —  audition  colorte  —  betrayed 
the  existence  of  a  slight  mental  lesion ;  and  he 
laughed  consumedly  at  the  notion  of  confound- 
ing musicians  with  madmen. 

"  Then  my  butcher  and  baker  are  just  as  mad," 
he  asserted ;  and  swore  that  a  man  could  both 
pray  and  think  of  eating  at  the  same  time. 
Why  should  the  highly  organized  brain  of  a 
musician  be  considered  abnormal  because  it 
could  see  tone,  hear  color,  and  out  of  a  mix- 
ture of  sound  and  silence,  fashion  images  of  awe 
and  sweetness  for  a  wondering,  unbelieving  world  ? 
If  Man  is  a  being  afloat  in  an  ocean  of  vibrations, 
as  Maurice  de  Fleury  wrote,  then  any  or  all  vi- 
brations are  possible.  Why  not  a  synthesis? 
Why  not  a  transposition  of  the  neurons  —  ac- 
cording to  Ramon  Y  Cajal  being  little  erectile 
329 


MELOMANIACS 

bodies  in  the  cells  of  the  cortex,  stirred  to  reflex 
motor  impulse  when  a  message  is  sent  them  from 
the  sensory  nerves?  The  crossing  of  filaments 
occurs  oftener  than  imagined,  and  Pobloff,  know- 
ing these  things,  had  boundless  faith  in  his  en- 
terprise. So  when  he  cried  aloud,  "  I  have  it ! " 
he  really  believed  that  at  last  he  saw  the  way 
clear;  and  his  symphonic  poem  was  to  be  the 
key  which  would  unlock  the  great  mystery  of 
existence. 

II 

Rehearsal  had  been  called  at  eight  o'clock,  a 
late  hour  for  Balak,  which  rises  early  only  to  get 
ready  the  sooner  for  the  luxury  of  a  long  after- 
noon siesta.  The  conductor  of  the  Royal  Fil- 
harmonie  Orchestra  had  sent  out  brief  enough 
notice  to  his  men ;  but  they  were  in  the  opera 
house  before  he  arrived.  Pobloff  believed  in 
discipline ;  when  he  reached  the  stage,  he  cast 
a  few  quick  glances  about  him:  fifty-two  men 
in  all  sat  in  their  accustomed  places;  his  con- 
certmaster,  Sven,  was  nodding  at  the  leader. 
Then  Pobloff  surveyed  the  auditorium,  its  depths 
dimly  lighted  by  the  few  clusters  of  lights  on  the 
platform;  white  linen  coverings  made  more 
ghastly  the  background.  He  thought  he  saw 
some  one  moving  near  the  main  door.  "  Who' s 
that?"  He  rapped  sharply  for  an  answer  but 
none  came.  Sven  said  that  the  women  who 
cleaned  the  opera  house  had  not  yet  arrived. 
33° 


THE   DISENCHANTED   SYMPHONY 

"  Lock  the  doors  and  keep  them  out,"  was  the 
response,  and  one  of  the  double-bass  players  ran 
down  the  steps  to  attend  to  the  order.  The 
men  smiled ;  and  some  whispered  that  they 
were  evidently  in  for  a  hard  morning  —  all 
signs  were  ominous.  Again  the  conductor's 
stick  commanded  silence. 

In  a  few  words  he  told  them  he  would 
rehearse  his  new  symphonic  poem,  "  The 
Abysm :  "  "I  call  it  by  that  title  as  an  experi- 
ment. In  fact  the  music  is  experimental  —  in 
the  development-section  I  endeavor  to  represent 
the  depths  of  starry  space ;  one  of  those  black 
abysms  that  are  the  despair  of  astronomer  and 
telescope.  Ahem !  "  Pobloff  looked  so  con- 
scious as  he  wiped  his  perspiring  mop  of  a  fore- 
head that  the  tenor  trombone  coughed  in  his 
instrument.  The  strange  cackle  caused  the 
composer  to  start:  "  How  's  that,  what's  that?" 
The  man  apologized.  "Yes,  yes,  of  course  you 
did  n't  do  it  on  purpose.  But  how  did  you  do 
it?  Try  it  again."  The  trombone  blatted  and 
the  orchestra  roared  with  laughter.  "  Gentle- 
men, gentlemen,  this  will  never  do.  I  needed 
just  such  a  crazy  tone  effect  and  always  imagined 
the  trombone  too  low  for  it."  "  Try  the  oboe, 
Herr  Kapellmeister,"  suggested  Sven,  and  this 
was  received  with  noisy  signs  of  joy.  "  Yes, 
the  crazy  oboe,  that 's  the  fellow  for  the  crazy 
effects!"  —  they  all  shouted.  Luga,  at  her 
harp,  arpeggiated  in  sardonic  excitement. 


MELOMANIACS 

"What's  the  matter  with  you  men  this  morn- 
ing?" sternly  inquired  Pobloff.  "  Did  you  miss 
your  breakfasts?"  Stillness  ensued  and  the 
rehearsal  proceeded.  It  was  very  trying. 
Seven  times  the  first  violins,  divided,  essayed 
one  passage,  and  after  its  chromaticism  had  been 
conquered  it  would  not  go  at  all  when  played 
with  the  wood-wind.  It  was  nearly  eleven 
o'clock.  The  heat  increased  and  also  the  thirst 
of  the  men.  As  the  doors  were  locked  there 
was  no  relief.  Grumbling  started.  Pobloff, 
very  pale,  his  eyes  staring  out  of  his  head, 
yelled,  swore,  stamped  his  feet,  waved  his  arms 
and  twice  barely  escaped  tumbling  over.  The 
work  continued  and  a  glaze  seemed  to  obscure 
his  eyes ;  he  was  well-nigh  speechless  but  beat 
time  with  an  intensity  that  carried  his  men  along 
like  chips  in  a  high  surf.  The  free-fantasia  of 
the  poem  was  reached,  and,  roaring,  the  music 
neared  its  climacteric  point.  "  Now,"  whispered 
Pobloff,  stooping,  "  when  the  pianissimo  begins 
I  shall  watch  for  the  Abysm."  As  the  wind 
sweepingly  rushes  to  a  howling  apex  so  came 
the  propulsive  crash  of  the  climax.  The  tone 
rapidly  subsided  and  receded ;  for  the  composer 
had  so  cunningly  scored  it  that  groups  of  in- 
struments were  withdrawn  without  losing  the 
thread  of  the  musical  tale.  The  tone,  spun  to  a 
needle  fineness,  rushed  up  the  fingerboard  of 
the  fiddles  accompanied  by  the  harp  in  a  bil- 
lowing glissando  and  —  then  on  ragged  rims  of 
332 


THE    DISENCHANTED   SYMPHONY 

wide  thunder  a  gust  of  air  seemed  to  melt  lights, 
men,  instruments  into  a  darkness  that  froze  the 
eyeballs.  With  a  scorching  whiff  of  sulphur  and 
violets,  a  thin,  spiral  scream,  the  music  tapered 
into  the  sepulchral  clang  of  a  tam-tam.  And 
Pobloff,  his  broad  face  awash  with  fear  saw  by 
a  solitary  wavering  gas-jet  that  he  was  alone 
and  upon  his  knees.  Not  a  musician  was  to  be 
seen.  Not  a  sound  save  dull  noises  from  the 
street  without.  He  stared  about  him  like  a  man 
suffering  from  some  hideous  ataxia,  and  the 
horror  of  the  affair  plucking  at  his  soul,  he  beat 
his  breast,  groaning  in  an  agony  of  envy. 

"  Oh,  it  is  the  Fourth  Dimension  they  have 
found  —  my  black  abysm  !  Oh,  why  did  I  not 
fall  into  it  with  the  ignorant  dogs !  "  He  was 
crying  this  over  and  over  when  the  doors  were 
smashed  and  Pobloff  taken,  half  delirious,  to 
his  home.  .  . 


Ill 

The  houses  of  Balak  are  seldom  over  two 
storeys  high ;  an  occasional  earthquake  is  the 
reason  for  this  architectural  economy.  PoblofFs 
sleeping  apartment  opened  out  upon  a  broad 
balcony  just  above  the  principal  entrance.  As 
he  lay  upon  his  couch  his  thoughts  revolved 
like  a  coruscating  wheel  of  fire.  What !  How  ! 
Where !  And  Luga,  was  she  lost  to  him  in  that 
no-man's  land  of  a  fourth  dimension?  He 
333 


MELOMANIACS 

closed  his  weary  wet  eyes.  Then  pricked  by  a 
sudden  thought  he  sat  up  in  jealous  rage.  No- 
man's  land?  Yes,  but  the  entire  orchestra  of 
fifty-two  men  were  with  her  —  and  he  hated  the 
horn-player,  for  had  he  not  intercepted  poison- 
ous glances  between  Luga  and  that  impertinent 
jackanapes?  In  his  torture  Pobloff  groaned 
aloud  and  wondered  how  he  had  reached  his 
home :  he  could  remember  nothing  after  the  ebon 
music  had  devoured  his  band.  How  did  it 
come  about?  Why  was  he  not  drawn  within 
the  fatal  whirlpool  of  sound?  Or  was  he  out- 
side the  fringe  of  the  vortex?  As  these 
questions  thronged  the  chambers  of  his  brain 
the  consciousness  of  what  he  had  discovered, 
accomplished,  flashed  over  him  in  a  supe- 
rior hot  wave  of  exultation.  "  I  am  greater 
than  Pythagoras,  Kepler,  Newton !  "  he  raved, 
only  stopping  for  breath.  Too  well  had  he 
calculated  his  trap  for  the  detection  of  a  third 
dimension  in  Time,  a  fourth  one  in  Space,  only 
to  catch  the  wrong  game ;  for  he  had  counted 
upon  studying,  if  but  for  a  few  rapt  moments, 
the  vision  of  a  land  west  of  the  sun,  east  of  the 
moon — a  novel  territory,  perhaps  a  vast  play- 
ground for  souls  emancipated  from  the  gyves 
of  existence.  But  this  !  —  he  shuddered  at  the 
catastrophe :  a  very  Pompeian  calamity  depriv- 
ing him  at  a  stroke  of  his  wife,  his  orchestra  — 
all,  all  had  been  engulfed.  Forgetting  his  newly 
won  crown,  forgetting  the  tremendous  import 
334 


THE   DISENCHANTED   SYMPHONY 

of  his  discovery  to  mankind,  Pobloff  began  howl- 
ing, "  Luga,  Luga,  Akh  !  Wife  of  my  bosom,  my 
tender  little  violet  of  a  harpist !  " 

His  voice  floated  into  the  street,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  to  be  echoed  by  a  shrill  chorus.  Soprano 
voices  reached  him  and  he  heard  his  name 
mentioned  in  a  foreboding  way. 

"  Where  is  the  pig?  Pobloff  !  Pobloff !  Why 
don't  you  show  your  ugly  face  ?  Be  a  man ! 
Where  are  our  husbands?"  He  recognized  a 
voice  —  it  was  the  wife  of  the  horn-player  who 
thus  insulted  him.  She  was  a  tall,  ugly  woman 
and,  as  gossip  averred,  she  beat  her  man  if  he  did 
not  return  home  sober  with  all  his  wages.  Pobloff 
rushed  out  upon  the  balcony ;  it  was  not  many 
feet  above  the  level  of  the  street.  In  the  rays  of 
a  sinking  sun  he  was  received  with  jeers,  groans, 
and  imprecations.  Balakian  women  have  warm 
blood  in  their  veins  and  are  not  given  to  measur- 
ing their  words  over-nicely.  He  stared  about 
him  in  sheer  wonderment.  A  mob  of  women 
gazed  up  at  him  and  its  one  expression  was  un- 
concealed wrath.  Children  and  men  hung  about 
the  circle  of  vengeful  amazons  laughing,  shout- 
ing and  urging  violence.  Pobloff,  in  his  dress- 
ing-gown, was  a  fair  target.  "  Where  are  our 
husbands?  Brute,  beast,  in  what  prison  have 
you  locked  them  up?  Where  is  your  good 
woman,  Luga?  Have  you  hidden  her,  you  old 
tyrant  ?  "  "  No  !  "  shrieked  the  horn-player's  wife, 
"  he  's  jealous  of  her."  "  And  she  's  run  away 
335 


MELOMANIACS 

with  your  man,"  snapped  the  wife  of  the  crazy 
oboist.  The  two  women  struggled  to  get  at  each 
other,  their  fingers  curved  for  hairplucking, 
but  others  interfered  —  it  would  not  be  right  to 
promote  a  street  fight,  when  the  cause  of  the 
trouble  was  almost  in  their  clutches.  A  disap- 
pointed yell  arose.  Pobloff  had  sneaked  away, 
overjoyed  at  the  chance,  and,  as  his  front  door 
succumbed  to  angry  feminine  pressure,  he  was 
safely  hidden  in  the  opera  house  which  he 
reached  by  running  along  back  alleys  in  the 
twilight.  There  he  learned  from  one  of  the 
stage  hands  that  the  real  secret  was  his  and 
his  alone. 

Alarmed  by  the  absence  of  their  husbands,  the 
musicians'  wives  hung  around  the  building  pes- 
tering the  officials.  Pobloff  has  been  found,  they 
were  informed,  in  a  solitary  fit,  on  the  floor  of  the 
auditorium.  The  stage  was  in  the  greatest  con- 
fusion —  chairs  and  music  stands  being  piled 
about  as  if  a  tornado  had  visited  the  place. 
Not  a  musician  was  there,  and  with  the  missing 
was  Luga,  the  harp-player.  A  thousand  wild 
rumors  prevailed.  The  men,  tired  of  tyrannical 
treatment,  brutal  rehearsals  and  continual  abuse, 
had  risen  in  a  body  and  thrashed  their  leader ; 
then  fearing  arrest,  fled  to  the  suburbs  carrying 
off  Luga  with  them  as  dangerous  witness.  But 
the  summer-garden,  where  they  usually  fore- 
gathered, had  not  seen  them  since  the  Sunday 
previous —  Luga  not  for  weeks.  This  had  been 
336 


THE   DISENCHANTED   SYMPHONY 

ascertained  by  interested  scouts.  The  fact  that 
Luga  was  with  the  rebels  gave  rise  to  disconcert- 
ing gossip.  Possibly  her  husband  had  discov- 
ered a  certain  flirtation  —  heads  shook  knowingly. 
At  five  o'clock  the  news  spread  that  Pobloff  had 
by  means  of  a  trap  in  the  stage,  dropped  the  en- 
tire orchestra  into  the  cellar,  where  they  lay 
entombed  in  a  half-dying  condition.  No  one 
could  trace  this  tale  to  its  source,  thought  it  was 
believed  to  have  emanated  from  the  oboe-play- 
er's wife.  Half  a  hundred  women  rushed  to  the 
opera  house  and  fell  upon  their  hands  and  knees, 
scratching  at  the  iron  cellar  gratings,  and  calling 
loudly  through  the  little  windows  whose  thick 
panes  of  glass  were  grimed  with  age.  Finding 
nothing,  hearing  nothing,  the  dissatisfied  crew 
only  needed  an  angry  explosion  of  bitterness 
from  the  lips  of  the  horn-player's  spouse  to  hatch 
hatred  in  their  bosoms  and  to  set  them  upon 
Pobloff  at  his  home. 

Now  knowing  that  he  was  safe  for  the  moment 
behind  the  thick  walls  of  the  opera  house,  he 
consoled  himself  with  some  bread  and  wine  which 
his  servant  fetched  him.  And  then  he  fell  to 
thinking  hard. 

No,  not  a  soul  suspected  the  real  reason  for 
the  disappearance  of  the  band  —  that  secret  was 
his  forever.  By  the  light  of  a  lamp  in  the  prop- 
erty room  he  danced  with  joy  at  his  escape  from 
danger;  and  the  tension  being  relaxed,  he  burst 
out  sobbing :  "  Luga !  Luga !  Oh,  where  arc 
22  337 


MELOMANIACS 

you,  my  little  harpist !  I  have  not  forgotten  you, 
my  violet.  Let  me  go  to  you  !  "  Pobloff  rolled 
over  the  carpetless  floor  in  an  ecstasy  of  grief, 
the  lamp  barely  casting  enough  light  to  cover 
his  burly  figure,  his  cheeks  trilling  with  tears. 

IV 

A  thin  rift  of  sunshine  fell  across  PoblofTs 
nose  and  awoke  him.  He  sat  up.  It  took  fully 
five  minutes  for  self-orientation,  and  the  fixed 
idea  bored  vainly  at  his  forehead.  He  groaned 
as  he  realized  the  hopelessness  of  the  situation. 
Sometime  the  truth  would  have  to  be  told.  The 
king  —  what  would  His  Majesty  not  say  !  Pob- 
loff s  life  was  in  danger ;  he  had  no  doubt  on  that 
head.  At  the  best,  if  he  escaped  the  infuriated 
women  he  would  be  cast  into  prison,  or  else 
wander  an  exile,  all  his  hopes  of  glory  gone. 
The  prospect  was  chilling.  If  he  had  only  kept 
the  score  —  the  score,  where  was  it?  In  a  mo- 
ment he  was  on  his  feet,  rummaging  the  stage 
for  the  missing  music.  It  had  vanished.  Pobloff 
jumped  from  the  platform  to  the  spot  where  he 
had  fallen ;  his  sharp  eye  saw  something  white 
beneath  the  overturned  music-stand.  It  did  not 
take  long  to  reveal  the  missing  partitur.  All 
was  there,  not  a  leaf  missing,  though  some  rum- 
pled and  soiled.  When  Pobloff  had  tumbled 
into  the  aisle,  miraculously  escaping  a  dislo- 
cated neck,  the  music  and  the  rack  had  kept 
338 


THE   DISENCHANTED   SYMPHONY 

him  company.  Curiously  he  fingered  the  man- 
uscript. Yes,  there  was  the  fatal  spot!  He 
gazed  at  the  strange  combination  of  instruments 
on  the  page  in  his  own  nervous  handwriting. 
How  came  the  cataclysm?  Vainly  the  com- 
poser scanned  the  various  clefs,  vainly  he  strove 
to  endow  with  significance  the  sparse  bunches 
of  notes  scattered  over  the  white  ruled  paper. 
He  saw  the  violins  in  the  highest,  most  screech- 
ing position ;  saw  them  disappear  like  a  battalion 
of  tiny  balloons  in  a  cloud.  No,  it  was  not  by 
the  violins  the  dread  enigma  was  solved.  But 
there  were  few  other  instruments  on  the  leaf 
except  the  harp.  Pooh!  The  harp  was  inno- 
cent enough  with  its  fantastic  spray  of  arpeg- 
gios ;  it  was  used  only  as  gilding  to  warm  the 
bitter,  wiry  tone  of  the  fiddles.  No,  it  was  not 
the  harp,  Pobloff  decided.  The  tam-tam,  a 
pulsatile  instrument  !  Perhaps  its  mordant 
sound  coupled  to  the  hissing  of  the  fiddles,  the 
cheeping  of  the  wood-wind,  and  the  roll  of 
the  harp ;  perhaps  —  and  then  he  was  gripped 
by  a  thrilling  thought. 

He  paced  the  length  of  the  empty  hall 
talking  aloud.  What  an  idea !  Why  not  put  it 
into  execution  at  once?  But  how?  Pobloff 
moaned  as  he  realized  its  futility.  He  could 
secure  no  other  musicians  because  every  one 
that  once  resided  in  Balak  had  disappeared ; 
there  was  no  hope  for  their  recrudescence.  He 
tramped  the  parquet  like  a  savage  hyena.  To 
339 


MELOMANIACS 

play  the  symphonic  poem  again,  to  rescue  from 
eternity  his  lost  Luga,  his  lost  comrades,  to  hear 
their  extraordinary  stories !  .  .  .  Trembling 
seized  him.  If  the  work  could  by  any  possi- 
bility be  played  again  would  not  the  same  awful 
fate  overtake  the  new  men  and  perhaps  himself? 
Decidedly  that  way  would  be  courting  disaster. 
As  he  strode  desperately  toward  the  stage, 
staring  at  its  polished  boards  as  if  to  extort 
their  secret,  he  discerned  the  shining  pipes  of 
the  monster  mechanical  organ  that  Balakian 
municipal  pride  had  imported  and  installed 
there.  Pobloff  was  a  man  of  fertile  inven- 
tion :  the  organ  might  serve  his  purpose.  But 
then  came  the  discouraging  knowledge  that  he 
could  not  play  it  well  enough.  No  matter; 
he  would  make  the  attempt.  He  clambered 
over  the  stage,  reached  the  instrument,  threw 
open  the  case  and  inspected  the  manuals.  By 
pulling  out  various  stops  he  soon  had  a  fair 
reproduction  of  the  instrumental  effects  of  his 
score.  Trembling,  he  placed  the  music  upon 
the  rack,  tremblingly  he  touched  the  button 
that  set  in  movement  the  automatic  motor. 
Forgetting  the  danger  of  detection,  he  set  peal- 
ing in  all  its  diapasonic  majesty  this  Synthesis 
of  Instruments.  He  reached  the  enchanted 
passage,  he  played  it,  his  knees  knocking  like 
an  undertaker's  hammer,  his  fingers  glued  to 
the  keys  by  moisty  fear.  The  abysm  was  easily 
traversed ;  nothing  occurred.  Despair  crowned 
34° 


THE   DISENCHANTED   SYMPHONY 

the  head  of  Pobloff,  pressing  spikes  of  remorse 
into  his  sweating  brow.  What  could  be  the  rea- 
son? Ah,  there  was  no  tam-tam!  He  rushed 
into  the  music-room  and  soon  returned  with  an 
old,  rusty  Chinese  gong.  Again  the  page  was 
played,  the  tam-tam's  thin  edge  set  shivering 
with  mournful  resonance.  And  again  there  was 
no  result.  Pobloff  cursed  the  organ,  cursed  the 
gong,  cursed  his  life,  cursed  the  universe. 

The  door  opened  and  the  stage  carpenter 
peeped  in.  "  Say,  Mr.  Pobloff,  do  come  and 
have  your  coffee  !  The  coast's  clear.  All  the 
women  have  gone  away  to  the  country  on  a 
wild  goose  chase."  His  voice  was  kind  though 
his  expression  was  one  of  suspicion.  Pobloff 
did  seem  a  trifle  mad.  He  went  into  the 
property  room.  As  he  drank  his  coffee  the 
other  watched  him.  Suddenly  Pobloff  let  out 
a  huge  cry  of  satisfaction.  "  Fool !  Dolt ! 
Idiot  that  I  am !  Of  course  the  passage  will 
have  to  be  played  backward  to  get  them  to 
return,  to  disenchant  the  symphony ! "  He 
leaped  with  joy.  "  Yes,  governor,  but  you  've 
upset  your  coffee,"  said  the  carpenter  warn- 
ingly.  Pobloff  heard  nothing.  The  problem 
now  was  to  play  that  vile  passage  backward. 
The  organ  —  there  stood  the  organ  but,  musician 
as  he  was,  he  could  not  play  his  score  in  reverse 
fashion.  The  thing  was  a  manifest  impossibility. 
Then  a  light  beat  in  upon  his  tortured  brain.  The 
carpenter  trembled  for  the  conductor's  reason. 
34i 


MELOMANIACS 

"  Look  here,  my  boy,"  Pobloff  blurted,  "  will 
you  do  me  a  favor?  Just  take  this  music  — 
these  two  pages  to  the  organ  factory.  You 
know  the  address.  Tell  the  superintendent  it 
is  a  matter  of  life  or  death  to  me.  Promise  him 
money,  opera  tickets  for  the  season,  for  two 
seasons,  if  he  will  have  this  music  reproduced, 
cut  out,  perforated,  whatever  it  is  —  on  a  roll 
that  I  can  use  in  this  organ.  I  must  have  it  with- 
in an  hour  —  or  soon  as  he  can.  Hurry  him, 
stand  over  him,  threaten  him,  curse  him,  beat 
him,  give  him  anything  he  asks  —  anything,  do 
you  hear?"  Thrusting  the  astonished  fellow 
out  of  the  room  into  the  entry,  into  the  street, 
Pobloff  barred  the  door  and  standing  on  one 
leg  he  hopped  along  the  hall  like  a  gay  frog, 
lustily  trolling  all  the  while  a  melancholy  Rus- 
sian folk-song.  Then  throwing  himself  pros- 
trate on  the  floor  he  spread  out  his  arms 
cruciform  fashion  and  with  a  Slavic  apathy 
that  was  fatalistic  awaited  the  return  of  the 
messenger. 

The  deadly  solemnity  of  the  affair  had  robbed 
it  for  him  of  its  strangeness,  its  abnormality; 
even  his  sense  of  its  ludicrousness  had  fled.  He 
was  consumed  by  a  desire  to  see  Luga  once 
more.  She  had  been  a  burden :  she  was  waspish 
of  tongue  and  given  to  seeking  the  admiration 
of  others,  notably  that  of  the  damnable  horn- 
player  —  Pobloff  clenched  his  fists  —  but  she 
342 


THE   DISENCHANTED   SYMPHONY 

was  his  wife,  Luga,  and  could  tell  him  what  he 
wished  most  to  know.  .  .  . 

He  seemed  to  have  spent  a  week,  his  face 
pressed  to  the  boards,  his  eyes  concentrated  on 
the  uneven  progress  of  a  file  of  ants  in  a  crack. 
The  cautious  tap  at  the  stage  door  had  not 
ceased  before  he  was  there  seizing  in  a  clutch 
of  iron  the  carpenter.  "  The  rolls  !  Have  you 
got  them  with  you?"  he  gasped.  A  cylinder 
was  shoved  into  his  eager  hand  and  with  it  he 
fled  to  the  auditorium,  not  even  shutting  the 
doors  behind  him.  What  did  he  care  now? 
He  was  sure  of  victory.  Placing  the  roll  in 
reverse  order  in  the  cylinder  he  started  the 
mechanism  of  the  organ.  Slowly,  as  if  the  grave 
were  unwilling  to  give  up  its  prey  the  music 
began  to  whimper,  wheeze  and  squeak.  It 
was  sounding  backward  and  it  sounded  three 
times  before  the  unhappy  man  saw  failure  once 
more  blinking  at  him  mockingly.  But  he  was 
not  to  be  denied.  He  re-read  the  score,  set  it 
going  on  the  organ,  then  picked  up  the  tam-tam. 
"  These  old  Chinese  ghosts  caused  the  trouble 
once  and  they  can  cause  it  again,"  he  muttered ; 
and  striking  the  instrument  softly,  the  music  for 
the  fourth  time  went  on  its  way  quivering,  its 
rear  entering  the  world  first.  .  .  . 

The  terrified  carpenter,  in  relating  the  affair 
later  swore  that  the  darkness  was  black  as  the 
wings  of  Satan.     A  lightning  flash  had  ended 
343 


MELOMANIACS 

the  music;  then  he  heard  feet  pausing  in  the 
gloom,  and  from  his  position  in  the  doorway 
he  saw  the  stage  crowded  with  men,  the  musi- 
cians of  the  Balakian  orchestra,  all  scraping, 
blaring  and  pounding  away  at  the  symphony, 
Pobloff,  stick  in  hand,  beating  time,  his  eyes 
closed  in  bliss,  his  back  arched  like  a  cat's. 

When  they  had  finished  playing,  Pobloff  wiped 
his  forehead  and  said,  "  Thank  you,  gentlemen. 
That  will  do  for  to-day."  They  immediately 
began  to  gabble,  hastily  putting  away  their  in- 
struments ;  while  from  without  entered  a  crazy 
stream  of  women  weeping,  laughing,  and  scold- 
ing. In  five  minutes  the  hall  was  emptied  of 
them  all.  Pobloff  turned  to  Luga.  She  eyed 
him  demurely,  as  she  covered  with  historic 
green  baize  her  brave  harp. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  joining  him,  "  well !  Give 
an  account  of  yourself,  sir  !  "  Pobloff  watched 
her,  completely  stupefied.  Only  his  discipline, 
his  routine  had  carried  him  through  this  tre- 
mendous resurrection  :  he  had  beaten  time  from 
a  sense  of  duty  —  why  he  found  himself  at  the 
head  of  his  band  he  understood  not.  He  only 
knew  that  the  experiment  of  playing  the  en- 
chanted symphony  backward  was  a  success : 
that  it  had  become  disenchanted;  that  Luga, 
his  violet,  his  harpist,  his  wife  was  restored  to 
him  to  bring  him  the  wonderful  tidings.  He 
put  his  arms  around  her.  She  drew  back  in  her 
primmest  attitude. 

344 


THE   DISENCHANTED   SYMPHONY 

"  No,  not  yet,  Pobloff.  Not  until  you  tell  me 
where  you  have  been  all  day."  He  sat  down 
and  wept,  wept  as  if  his  heart  would  strain  and 
crack;  and  then  the  situation  poking  him  in 
the  risible  rib  he  laughed  until  Luga  herself 
relaxed. 

"  It  may  be  very  funny  to  you,  husband,  and 
no  doubt  you  Ve  had  a  jolly  time,  but  you  Ve 
not  told  where  or  with  whom."  Pobloff  seized 
her  by  the  wrists. 

"  Where  were  you  ?  What  have  you  been 
doing,  woman?  What  was  it  like,  that  strange 
country  which  you  visited,  and  from  which  you 
are  so  marvellously  returned  to  me  like  a  stone 
upcast  by  a  crater?"  She  lifted  her  eyebrows 
in  astonishment. 

"  You  know,  Pobloff,  I  have  warned  you 
about  your  tendency  to  apoplexy.  You  bother 
your  brain,  such  as  it  is,  too  much  with  figures. 
Stick  to  your  last,  Mr.  Shoemaker,  and  don't  eat 
so  much.  When  you  fell  off  the  stage  this  morn- 
ing I  was  sure  you  were  killed,  and  we  were  all 
very  much  alarmed.  But  after  the  hornist  told 
us  you  would  be  all  right  in  a  few  hours,  we  —  " 
"Whom  do  you  mean  by  we,  Luga?"  "The 
men,  of  course."  "And  you  saw  me  faint?" 
"  Certainly,  Pobloff." 

"Where  did  you  go,  wife?"  "Go?  No- 
where. We  remained  here.  Besides,  the  doors 
were  locked,  and  the  men  could  n't  get  away." 
"  And  you  saw  nothing  strange,  did  not  notice 
345 


MELOMANIACS 

that  you  were  out  of  my  sight,  out  of  the  town's 
sight,  for  over  thirty  hours?"  "  Pobloff,"  she 
vixenishly  declared,  "  you  've  been  at  the 
vodka." 

"  And  so  there  is  no  true  perception  of  time 
in  the  fourth  dimension  of  space,"  he  sadly  re- 
flected. His  brows  became  dark  with  jealousy : 
"  What  did  you  do  all  the  time  ?  "  That  accursed 
horn-player  in  her  company  for  over  a  day ! 

"Do?"  "Yes,"  he  repeated,  "do?  Were 
there  no  wonderful  sights?  Did  n't  you  catch  a 
glimpse,  as  through  an  open  door,  of  rare  plan- 
etary vistas,  of  a  remoter  plane  of  existence? 
Were  there  no  grandiose  and  untrodden  stars? 
O  Luga,  tell  me  !  —  you  are  a  woman  of  imag- 
ination—  what  did  you  see,  hear,  feel  in  that 
many-colored  land,  out  of  time,  out  of  space?" 

"  See  ?  "  she  echoed  irritably,  for  she  was  an- 
noyed by  her  husband's  poetic  foolery,  "  what 
could  I  see  in  this  hall  ?  When  the  men  were  n't 
grumbling  at  having  nothing  to  drink,  they  were 
playing  pinochle" 

"They  played  cards  in  the  fourth  dimension 
of  space  !  "  Pobloff  boomed  out  reproachfully, 
sorrowfully.  Then  he  went  meekly  to  his  home 
with  Luga,  the  harpist 


346 


MUSIC   THE   CONQUEROR 

THE  hot  hush  of  noon  was  stirred  into  uneasy 
billows  by  the  shuffling  of  sandals  over  marble 
porches ;  all  Rome  sped  to  the  spectacle  in  the 
circus.  A  brave  day,  the  wind  perfumed,  a  hard 
blue  sky,  the  dark  shadows  cool  and  caressing 
and  in  the  breeze  a  thousand-colored  canopies 
fainted  and  fluttered.  The  hearts  of  the  people 
on  the  benches  were  gay,  for  Diocletian,  their 
master,  had  baited  the  trap  with  Christians ;  liv- 
ing, palpitating  human  flesh  was  to  be  sacrificed 
and  the  gossips  spoke  in  clear,  crisp  sentences 
as  they  enumerated  the  deadly  list,  dwelling 
upon  certain  names  with  significant  emphasis. 
This  multitude  followed  with  languid  interest 
the  gladiatorial  displays,  the  chariot  races ;  even 
a  fierce  duel  between  two  yellow-haired  barba- 
rians evoked  not  a  single  cry.  Rome  was  in  a 
killing  mood :  thumbs  were  not  often  upturned. 
The  imperial  one  gloomed  as  he  sat  high  in  his 
gold  and  ivory  tribune.  His  eyes  were  sullen 
with  satiety,  his  heart  flinty. 

As  the  afternoon  waned  the  murmurs  modu- 
lated clamorously  and  a  voice  shrilled  forth, 
"  Give  us  the  Christians  !  "  The  cry  was  taken 
347 


MELOMANIACS 

up  by  a  thundrous  chorus  which  chaunted  alter- 
nately the  antiphonies  of  hate  and  desire  until 
the  earth  trembled.  And  Diocletian  smiled. 

The  low  doors  of  the  iron  cages  adjoining  the 
animals  opened,  and  a  dreary  group  of  men, 
women,  children  were  pushed  to  the  centre  of 
the  arena ;  a  half  million  of  eyes,  burning  with 
anticipation,  watched  them.  Shouts  of  disap- 
pointment, yells  of  disgust  arose.  To  the  ex- 
perts the  Christians  did  not  present  promise  of 
a  lasting  fight  with  the  lions.  The  sorry  crew 
huddled  with  downcast  looks  and  lips  moving  in 
silent  prayer  as  they  awaited  the  animals.  In 
the  onslaught  nothing  could  be  heard  but  the 
snarls  and  growls  of  the  beasts.  A  whirlwind  of 
dust  and  blood,  a  brief  savage  attack  of  keepers 
armed  with  metal  bars  heated  white,  and  the 
lions  went  to  their  cages,  jaws  dripping  and 
bellies  gorged.  The  sand  was  dug,  the  bored 
spectators  listlessly  viewing  the  burial  of  the 
martyrs'  mangled  bones ;  it  was  all  over  within 
the  hour. 

Rome  was  not  yet  satisfied  and  Diocletian 
made  no  sign.  Woefully  had  the  massacre  of  the 
saints  failed  to  please  the  palate  of  the  populace. 
So  often  had  it  been  glutted  with  butcheries 
that  it  longed  for  more  delicate  devilries,  new 
depths  of  death.  Then  a  slim  figure  clad  in 
clinging  garments  of  pure  white  was  led  to  the 
imperial  tribune  and  those  near  the  Emperor 
saw  him  start  as  if  from  a  wan  dream.  Her 
348 


MUSIC  THE   CONQUEROR 

bronze-hued  hair  fell  about  her  shoulders,  her 
eyes  recalled  the  odor  of  violets ;  and  they  be- 
held the  vision  of  the  Crucified  One.  She  was 
a  fair  child,  her  brow  a  tablet  untouched  by  the 
stylus  of  sin. 

The  populace  hungered.  Fresh  incense  was 
thrown  on  the  brazier  of  coals  glowing  be- 
fore the  garlanded  statue  of  Venus  as  flutes 
intoned  a  languorous  measure.  A  man  of  im- 
passive priestly  countenance  addressed  her 
thrice,  yet  her  eyes  never  wandered,  neither  did 
she  speak.  She  thus  refused  to  worship  Venus, 
and  angered  at  the  insult  offered  to  the  beautiful 
foe  of  chastity,  Rome  screamed  and  hooted, 
demanding  that  she  be  given  over  to  the  torture. 
Diocletian  watched. 

A  blare  of  trumpets  like  a  brazen  imprecation 
and  the  public  pulse  furiously  pounded,  for  a 
young  man  was  dragged  near  the  Venus.  About 
his  loins  a  strip  of  linen,  and  he  was  goodly  to 
see  —  slender,  olive-skinned,  with  curls  cluster- 
ing over  a  stubborn  brow ;  but  his  eyes  were 
blood-streaked  and  his  mouth  made  a  blue  mark 
across  his  face.  He  stared  threateningly  at 
Diocletian,  at  the  multitude  cynically  anticipating 
the  punishment  of  the  contumacious  Christians. 

Sturdy  brutes  seized  the  pair,  but  they  stood 
unabashed,  for  they  saw  open  wide  the  gates  of 
Paradise.  And  Diocletian's  eyes  were  a  deep 
black.  Urged  by  rude  hands  maid  and  youth 
were  bound  truss-wise  with  cords.  Then  the 
349 


MELOMANIACS 

subtile  cruelty  caught  the  mob's  fancy.  This 
couple,  once  betrothed,  had  been  separated  by 
their  love  for  the  Son  of  Galilee.  She  looked 
into  his  eyes  and  saw  there  the  image  of  Jesus 
Christ  and  Him  crucified.  He  moistened  his 
parched  lips.  The  sun  blistered  their  naked 
skins  and  seemed  to  laugh  at  their  God,  while 
the  Venus  in  her  cool  grot  sent  them  wreathed 
smiles,  bidding  them  worship  her  and  forget 
their  pale  faith.  And  the  two  flutes  made 
dreamy  music  that  sent  into  the  porches  of  the 
ear  a  silvery,  feverish  mist.  Breathless  the  lovers 
gazed  at  the  shimmering  goddess.  The  vast, 
silent  throng  questioned  them  with  its  glance. 
Suddenly  they  were  seen  to  shudder,  and  Dio- 
cletian rose  to  his  feet  rending  his  garments. 
In  the  purple  shadows  of  the  amphitheatre  a 
harsh,  prolonged  shout  went  up. 

That  night  at  his  palace  the  Master  of  the 
World  would  not  be  comforted.  And  the  Venus 
was  carried  about  Rome  ;  great  was  the  homage 
accorded  her.  In  their  homes  the  two  flute 
players,  who  were  Christians,  wept  unceasingly ; 
well  they  knew  music  and  its  conquering  power 
for  evil. 


35<> 


BOOKS    BY    JAMES    HUNEKER 

What  some  distinguished  writer*  have  said  of 
them  : 

Maurice  Maeterlinck  wrote,  May  15,  1905:  "Do 
you  know  that  'Iconoclasts'  is  the  only  book  of  high 
and  universal  critical  worth  that  we  have  had  for 
years — to  be  precise,  since  Georg  Brandes.  It  is  at 
once  strong  and  fine,  supple  and  firm,  indulgent  and 
sure." 

And  of  "Ivory  Apes  and  Peacocks"  he  said,  among 
other  things:  "I  have  marvelled  at  the  vigilance  and 
clarity  with  which  you  follow  and  judge  the  new  liter- 
ary and  artistic  movements  in  all  countries.  I  do  not 
know  of  criticism  more  pure  and  sure  than  yours." 
(October,  1915.) 


Of  "Visionaries"  Remy  de  Gourmont  wrote,  June 
22,  1006:  "I  am  convinced  that  you  have  written  a 
very  curious,  very  beautiful  book,  and  one  of  that 
sort  comes  to  us  rarely." 


Paul  Bourget  wrote,  Lundi  de  Paques,  1909,  of 
"Egoists":  "I  have  browsed  through  the  pages  of 
your  book  and  found  that  you  touch  in  a  sympathetic 
style  on  diverse  problems,  artistic  and  literary.  In  the 
case  of  Stendhal  your  catholicity  of  treatment  is  ex- 
tremely rare  and  courageous." 


Dr.  Georg  Brandes,  the  versatile  and  profound 
Danish  critic,  wrote:  "I  find  your  breadth  of  view 
and  its  expression  more  European  than  American;  but 
the  essential  thing  is  that  you  are  an  artist  to  your  very 
marrow." 


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IVORY  APES  AND  PEACOCKS 

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"Out  of  the  depressing  welter  of  our  American  writing  upon 
aesthetics,  with  its  incredible  thinness  and  triteness  and  paltriness, 
its  intellectual  sterility,  its  miraculous  dulness,  its  limitless  and 
appalling  vapidity,  Mr.  James  Huneker,  and  the  small  and  honor- 
able minority  of  his  peers,  emerge  with  a  conspicuousness  that  is 
both  comforting  and  disgraceful.  .  .  .  Susceptibility,  clairvoyance, 
immediacy  of  response,  are  his;  he  is  the  friend  of  any  talent  that  is 
fine  and  strange  and  frank  enough  to  incur  the  dislike  of  the  mighty 
army  of  Bourbons,  Puritans,  and  Boeotians.  He  is  innocent  of 
prepossessions.  He  is  infinitely  flexible  and  generous.  Yet  if,  in 
the  twenty  years  that  we  have  been  reading  him,  he  has  ever  praised 
a  commonplace  talent,  we  have  no  recollection  of  it.  His  critical 
tact  is  well-nigh  infallible.  .  .  .  His  position  among  writers  on 
aesthetics  is  anomalous  and  incredible:  no  merchant  traffics  in  his 
heart,  yet  he  commands  a  large,  an  eager,  an  affectionate  public. 
Is  it  because  he  is  both  vivid  and  acute,  robust  yet  fine-fingered, 
tolerant  yet  unyielding,  astringent  yet  tender — a  mellow  pessimist, 
a  kindly  cynic?  Or  is  it  rather  because  he  is,  primarily,  a  tem- 
perament—dynamic, contagious,  lovable,  inveterately  alive — ex- 
pressing itself  through  the  most  transparent  of  the  arts?" 
— LAWRENCE  OILMAN,  in  North  American  Review  (October,  1913). 


NEW  COSMOPOLIS 

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"Mr.  James  Huneker,  critic  of  music  in  the  first  place,  is  a  crafts- 
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distinguished  place  among  present-day  American  essayists.  He  is 
intensely  'modern,'  well  read  in  recent  European  writers,  and  not 
lacking  sympathy  with  the  more  rebellious  spirits.  Ancient  seren- 
ity has  laid  no  chastening  hand  on  his  thought  and  style,  but  he  has 
achieved  at  times  a  fineness  of  expression  that  lifts  his  work  above 
that  of  the  many  eager  and  artistic  souls  who  strive  to  be  the  thinkers 
of  New  England  to-day.  He  flings  off  his  impressions  at  fervent 
heat;  he  is  not  ashamed  to  be  enthusiastic;  and  he  cannot  escape 
that  large  sentimentality  which,  to  less  disciplined  transatlantic 
writers,  is  know;  nakedly  as  'heart  interest.'  Out  of  his  chaos 
of  reading  and  observation  he  has,  however,  evolved  a  criticism  of 
life  that  makes  for  intellectual  cultivation,  although  it  is  of  a  Bo- 
hemian rather  than  an  academic  kind.  Given  a  different  environ- 
ment, another  training,  Mr.  Huneker  might  have  emerged  as  an 
American  Walter  Pater." — London  Atherueum  (November  6,  igis). 


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UNICORNS 

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obscurity." 
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VISIONARIES 

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"  In  '  The  Spiral  Road '  and  in  some  of  the  other  stories  both  fan- 
tasy and  narrative  may  be  compared  with  Hawthorne  in  his  most 
unearthly  moods.  The  younger  man  has  read  his  Nietzsche  and  has 
cast  off  his  heritage  of  simple  morals.  Hawthorne's  Puritanism  finds 
no  echo  in  these  modern  souls,  all  scepticaj,  wavering,  and  unblessed. 
But  Hawthorne's  splendor  of  vision  and  his  power  of  sympathy  with 
a  tormented  mind  do  live  again  in  the  best  of  Mr.  Huneker's  stories." 
— London  Academy  (Feb.  3,  1906). 


ICONOCLASTS: 

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MEZZOTINTS  IN  MODERN 
MUSIC 

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as  possible  ;  or  he  sketches  the  composers  in  fine,  broad,  sweeping 
strokes  with  a  magnificent  disregard  for  unimportant  details.  And 
as  Mr.  Huneker  is,  as  I  have  said,  a  powerful  personality,  a  man  of 
quick  brain  and  an  energetic  imagination,  a  man  of  moods  and  tem- 
perament— a  string  that  vibrates  and  sings  in  response  to  music — 
we  get  in  these  essays  of  his  a  distinctly  original  and  very  valuable 
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— J.  F.  RUNCIMAN,  in  London  Saturday  Review. 


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FRANZ  LISZT 

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THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE 

A  Book  of  a  Thousand  and  One  Moments 
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still  about  Wagner;  he  hauls  over  his  French  library  of  modern 
immortals,  and  he  gives  a  touch  to  George  Moore,  to  Arthur  Davies, 
and  to  many  another  valiant  worker  in  paint,  music,  and  letters. 
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liancy."— Chicago  Tribune. 


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is  a  real  interpreter,  and  here  his  long  experience  of  men  and  ways 
in  art  counts  for  much.  Charming,  in  the  slighter  vein,  are  such 
appreciations  as  the  Monticelli  and  Chardin." — FRANK  JEWETT 
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